When the Radcliffe Library was opened at Oxford, which was done April 13th, 1749, with great solemnity, the degree of Doctor of Medicine was conferred by diploma upon Dr. William Pitcairn; and the College of Physicians hastened to adopt him, in the following year, into their corporate body. He was descended from the family of Dr. Archibald Pitcairn, celebrated as the founder of the mechanical sect of medicine, who, having followed the fortunes of the exiled James, was, for a short time, Professor of the Practice of Physic at the University of Leyden. Boerhaave and Mead had been fellow pupils of this distinguished man, and Dr. Wm. Pitcairn, into whose hands I now was delivered, had studied under Boerhaave; afterwards he had travelled with the Duke of Hamilton (to whose family he was related), though not in a medical capacity. His brother, a Major in the army, had been killed at the battle of Bunker’s Hill, and as there was not in the world a more excellent or benevolent character than my present master, he adopted his orphan children, and always acted towards them with the affection and solicitude of a parent. He was a man of very agreeable manners, and his society was much sought after.—Among the many occasions on which I attended him to the houses of his professional brethren, I remember once particularly, when in company with his nephew, then a very young man (afterwards Dr. David Pitcairn), we called upon Dr. Richard Warren. We were received with the greatest kindness and alacrity, the Doctor showing my master that respectful attention which, without checking the familiar tone of friendly intercourse, is due and agreeable to superiors in age. During the lively and entertaining conversation which ensued, Dr. Pitcairn, in introducing his nephew, expressed himself in these words:—“Dr. Warren, my nephew, whom I present to you, received his early education at Glasgow, but afterwards I took him home, and kept him here in London, under my own eye for a short time, endeavouring to give him some of my peculiar views of practice. He is now just returned from Edinburgh, where he has been under the tuition of my countryman, Dr. Cullen, whose clinical clerk he has been for a twelvemonth. Surely you will think him a youth of promise in his profession when I inform you, that in the case of the son of that great master of physic, which the father thought desperate, he took a hint from what he had learned in London, and advised a larger dose of laudanum than is usually made use of, which restored the child of his preceptor and friend. My currus triumphalis opii, as some of my brethren have been pleased to call my practice, has thus travelled northwards to my own country, and I rejoice that it has reached the door of so amiable a man and excellent practitioner as Dr. Cullen.” So strong a recommendation was not without its effect, and the expressions of friendship with which Dr. Warren received the young student of physic were afterwards amply fulfilled by the real assistance and countenance which he gave him in the commencement of his professional career. On our return from Sackville Street, where Dr. Warren lived, to our own residence, in Warwick Court, Warwick Lane, when I had been carefully replaced in the carriage—“David,” said my master to his nephew, “the Physician whose house we have left is a remarkable man, and well worthy your observation. He has risen rapidly to the top of his profession, and his abilities justify his success. You must have remarked the liveliness, distinctness, and accuracy of his mind, and the felicity of expression with which he explains himself, exhibiting at once a clearness of comprehension and a depth of knowledge that are very rarely to be met with. He has certainly had some considerable advantages in the beginning of his professional life, was early admitted into the best society, and is the intimate friend of the minister, Lord North, who is confessedly the most agreeable man of our day. You see how kindly he has received you; and as I hope, nay, fully expect, that you will become intimately acquainted with him, I think you will like to know all about him. His father was the Rev. Dr. Richard Warren, Archdeacon of Suffolk and Rector of Cavendish, in the same county; a divine of considerable eminence, and one of those who entered into the controversy upon the Sacrament against Bishop Hoadley. He was also editor of the Greek Commentary of Hierocles upon the golden verses of Pythagoras. My friend, the Doctor, was the third son, and was born at Cavendish, in December, 1731: he received the rudiments of his education at the public school at Bury St. Edmunds, in Suffolk; from whence in the year 1748, immediately upon his father’s death, he removed to Jesus College, Cambridge. At this time he had little but his industry and natural talents to support him, aided by the reputation of being the son of a clergyman of ability. How far this served him, however, in the beginning of life may be doubted, for the low church party prevailed at that time in the University with such violence, as not to dispose the persons then in authority to look with an eye of kindness upon the son of an antagonist of Hoadley. In due time he took the degree of A. B., and his name appears fourth in the list of wranglers of that year. I am not much acquainted with the forms of these English Universities, as I have never resided at either of them; but I have been given to understand, that if fair justice had been done my friend, he ought to have been placed even higher; it is certain, however, that he obtained the prize granted to the middle Bachelors of Arts for Latin prose composition, and the following year got the prize for the senior Bachelors. Being already elected Fellow of his College, the choice of a profession presented itself to his mind. To pursue the steps of his father, who had been like himself a Fellow of Jesus College, was perhaps the most obvious; but he had two elder brothers already in the church, which indeed might be considered his family profession, as his ancestors had followed it from the time of Queen Elizabeth. His own inclination, as I have often heard him say, would have led him to the law, but the res angusta domi was an invincible obstacle, and accident at length threw him upon the study of physic.

“Whether fortunately for himself, great as has been his early success, and promising as his future prospects undoubtedly are, may be questioned; for abilities like his would have led him to the head of any other profession. At this critical moment the son of Dr. Peter Shaw was entered at Jesus College, and placed under his tuition. The name of this Physician must be known to you from his works, by his editions of Bacon and Boyle, and from the fact of his having been one of the Physicians of George the Second, and the usual medical attendant upon that Monarch in his journeys to Hanover. The casual acquaintance which my friend thus formed determined his lot in life; for Dr. Shaw, who was a very amiable and high spirited man, and possessed of various knowledge, was naturally pleased with similar qualities in a young man; took an interest in his welfare, and in recommending him to pursue the study of medicine, predicted that he would rank with the first Physicians of his country. This connexion was some years afterwards strengthened by a marriage with Dr. Shaw’s daughter; and much of the early difficulty of medical life was consequently overcome by an immediate introduction to the prominent Physicians of that day, and to some of the upper circles in life, in which Dr. Shaw moved. Sir Edward Wilmot, at that time a Physician to the Court, and much employed among the nobility, was the attendant on the Princess Amelia, the daughter of George the Second. Being advanced in life and looking to retirement, he was led to propose Dr. Warren as an assistant to attend to the more minute and arduous duties required by a royal patient, who was besides subject to sudden seizures that created alarm. At the commencement of his practice, Dr. Warren, during three summers, went to Tunbridge Wells, and on two of these occasions Her Royal Highness visited that watering-place under his care. On the retirement of Sir Edward Wilmot, he continued Physician to the Princess, and one of the rewards bestowed upon him was the appointment of Physician to the King, which was procured for him by her influence, on the resignation of his father-in-law, Dr. Shaw, who had been continued in that office on the accession of George the Third. He was for a short time one of the Physicians to the Middlesex Hospital, then in its infancy; and afterwards, for several years, belonged to St. George’s Hospital.

“His progress has been more rapid than that of any other physician of our time, and when you meet him in practice, which I hope you may often do hereafter, you will discover in him a marked superiority over other men.”

My master here paused for an instant, and taking me up from the position in which I had been lying, raised me to the level of his eyes, and looking attentively at my head, exclaimed, “This cane, which my worthy friend, Dr. Askew, left to me about two years ago, once belonged to Radcliffe, and might well have descended to Dr. Warren, for no one more resembles that penetrating physician, and most extraordinary man, in the accuracy of his prognosis, and the almost intuitive sagacity with which he sees at a glance the true nature of a complaint. But I recommend you to read his Harveian Oration, which I heard him deliver seven years ago, where, notwithstanding the difficulty of introducing any thing like novelty into the annual commemoration of the Benefactors of the College, you will find that he has contrived to treat the subject with the sprightliness, the force and brevity, the precision of thought, and smartness of expression, that are peculiarly his own. The characters are drawn without effort, the narration flows easily and naturally, containing touches of tenderness and pathos when he alludes to the death of his early friends, Wollaston and Hadley, and rising even to eloquence when he comes to speak of his relative, Dr. Shaw. But here,” continued he, as we entered the narrowest part of Warwick Lane, “is the College of Physicians, where I heard the speech delivered; we will alight, and send the carriage home. As I am now the President, I will show you the interior of the building, point out and explain to you some of its contents.” We stopped at some large iron gates, and passed under the curiously constructed dome, built in an oval form over the entrance, the plan of which was furnished by Sir Christopher Wren. On the opposite side of the court, he pointed out, over the door, in a niche, the statue of Charles II., voted in 1680, with the following inscription, expressive of the various fortunes of that monarch.

Utriusque FortunÆ Exemplar
Ingens Adversis Rebus Deum
Probavit Prosperis Seipsum
Collegii Hujusce Stator.

On entering the Hall, we turned to the right, and saw the Library, consisting of two rooms communicating with each other, with galleries running round them. “The College,” said my master, “was built and used for public meetings, in the year 1674, but this Library was not finished till eight or ten years after[43]. Unfortunately we have lost our able Librarian, George Edwards, who died two years ago, at the age of eighty. But here,” said Dr. Pitcairn, “is his work on Birds, which he began about seven years after he was chosen Library Keeper, to which office he was elected in 1733, through the influence of Sir Hans Sloane, who continued through life his great patron. Edwards was an extraordinary man; when young he had been intended for trade, but having an opportunity to travel, he much improved himself; and when, on his return from abroad, he was lucky enough to obtain the leisure which his office here afforded him, he devoted himself to the study of natural history, and became by great assiduity a distinguished ornithologist. During thirty-six years he was Librarian to the College, and in that period was chosen Fellow of the Royal and Antiquarian Societies, and by the first of these learned bodies was rewarded with the Copley medal; of which he was deservedly so proud, as to have caused it to be engraved in the title-page of the first volume of his work. Were he in my place, he would exhibit to you the treasures of our Library, which, though imperfect as a collection of medical books (for it consists chiefly of donations), is rich in rare classics, curious manuscripts, and in very scarce and valuable Treatises on Civil Law.”

On returning to the Hall, we ascended a broad staircase, the sides of which were hung with pictures, and on the first landing-place stopped, to read the long inscription to the memory of Harvey. “This,” said my master, “was voted by the College, in 1659, the year after the death of this illustrious man. You see it is on copper, which proves that it is a copy of the original epitaph, for that was on marble[44]. During his lifetime a statue, ornamented with a cap and gown, on the pedestal of which was another inscription, had been erected in the Hall of the College, in Amen Corner; but this honorary tablet which we are now looking at was placed in the Museum which bore his own name.” And this difference of position is alluded to in the inscription itself, for after enumerating the virtues, the discoveries, and more especially the various claims Harvey has to the eternal gratitude of the College, it concludes—

Ne mireris igitur Lector
Si quem Marmoreum illic stare vides
Hic totam implevit Tabulam.
Abi et merere alteram.

We now reached the great room, or CÆnaculum, wainscoted by Hamey with Spanish oak, at the expense of some hundred pounds, in the most elegant manner, with pilasters and carved capitals; and here the President explained to his nephew the pictures with which this and the adjoining Censor’s Room were adorned. He particularly called his attention to the portraits of Sir Theodore Mayerne, of Sydenham, of Harvey, and of the deeply learned Physician and antiquary, Sir Thomas Browne, the author of the Religio Medici. While gazing on that of Sir Edmund King—“To be a court Physician now-a-days,” said my master, “does not involve quite so much responsibility as formerly, for the Doctor whose likeness is before us incurred considerable hazard, by saving for a time the life of His Majesty Charles the Second. When the King was first seized with his last illness, it was in his bedchamber, where he was surprised by an apoplectic fit, so that, if by God’s providence Dr. King had not been accidentally present to let him blood (having his lancet in his pocket), His Majesty had certainly died that moment; which might have been of direful consequence, there being nobody else present with the King, save this Doctor and one more. It was considered a mark of extraordinary dexterity, resolution, and presence of mind in the Doctor to let him blood in the very paroxysm, without staying the coming of other physicians, which regularly should have been done, and for want of which it was at first thought that he would require a regular pardon. The Privy Council, however, approved of what he had done, and ordered him £1000—which, by the by, was never paid him.”

We next passed to the portrait of Vesalius, on board, by Calker. “This famous anatomist,” continued the President, “was some time Physician to the Emperor Charles the Fifth, but being disgusted with the manners of a court, he made a voyage to the Holy Land; on his return thence to fill the chair of Professor of Medicine at Padua, to which he had been invited on the death of Fallopius, he was shipwrecked in 1564, in the Isle of Zante, where he perished of hunger.”

Opposite the full length portrait of Sir Hans Sloane my master paused, and told his nephew, that “Sir Hans, in the decline of his life, had left London, and retired to his manor-house[45] at Chelsea, where he resided about fourteen years before he died. Our Librarian, Edwards, of whom we were talking a few minutes ago, was used to visit him every week to divert him for an hour or two with the common news of the town, and with any particulars that might have happened amongst his acquaintances of the Royal Society, or other ingenious gentlemen, and seldom missed drinking coffee with him on a Saturday. The old baronet was so infirm, as to be wholly confined to his house, except sometimes, though rarely, taking a little air in his garden in a wheeled chair; and this confinement made him very desirous to see any of his old acquaintance to amuse him. Knowing that the Librarian did not abound in the gifts of fortune, he was strictly careful, Edwards used to say, that he should be at no expense in his journeys from London to Chelsea; and Sir Hans would calculate what the cost of coach hire, waterage, or any other little charge attending on his journeys backward and forward would amount to, and, observing as much delicacy as possible, would oblige him annually to accept of it. In this quiet and inoffensive life did he continue exercising the most charitable disposition towards decayed branches of families of eminent men, famous for their learned works, till January, 1753, when he died, with great firmness of mind, and resignation to the will of God. Thirty years before this event, he had presented to the Apothecaries’ Company his botanical garden at Chelsea, upon the following conditions, viz. the payment of £5 per annum, and the yearly offering of fifty plants to the Royal Society, till the number amounted to 2000. If it were attempted to convert it to any other use, it was to devolve to the Royal Society, and ultimately to the College of Physicians; but the intentions of the original donor have been most faithfully and liberally fulfilled by the Apothecaries, who expend a very large sum annually, with no other view than the promotion of botanical knowledge, more especially in the cultivation of curious and rare plants. In 1748, they erected a statue[46] to Sir Hans, in front of the green-house, with this inscription—

Hansio Sloane Baronetto Archiatro
Insignissimo Botanices Fautori
Hoc honoris causa Monimentum
Inque perpetuam ejus Memoriam
Sacrum Voluit
Societas PharmacopÆiorum Londinensis
1733.”

The merit and virtues of Sir Hans had particularly caught the attention of young Pitcairn, and his character continued to form the subject of conversation as the senior returned with his nephew to his own house.

“The immediate result of his death,” observed the uncle, “was the foundation of the British Museum; for this great patron of science, being well aware how much it is benefited by the aggregation of various objects, and anxious that his fine collection should be preserved entire, directed by his will, that after his decease the whole of his Museum of natural and artificial curiosities, which had cost him £50,000, should be offered to Parliament for the moderate sum of £20,000, to be paid to his family.

“The contents of his collection were very various, and consisted of his library, books of drawings, MSS., &c. 50,000 volumes.

besides antique idols, anatomical preparations, amphibia, insects, minerals, volumes of dried plants, mathematical instruments, &c. the particulars of which were entered in a catalogue that was comprised in thirty-eight volumes folio, and eight volumes quarto.

“The offer directed in the will of Sir Hans Sloane was immediately made to Parliament, and accepted without hesitation; and before the expiration of the year of his death an Act was passed, ordering the payment of the stipulated sum to his executors, and vesting the property of the Museum in trustees for the use of the public. To this scientific repository was soon afterwards added whatever the Legislature could command; the Cottonian Library was obtained, and the Harleian collection of MS. was purchased; and in order to defray the expenses of these different acquisitions, and to provide a proper mansion for their reception, Parliament raised the sum of £100,000 by way of Lottery. The trustees then bought of the representatives of the Montague family the house which had been built by the first Duke of Montague; a stately and ample palace, which had been originally ornamented by the fresco paintings of the famous Verrio, representing the Funeral Pile of Dido, the Labours of Hercules, the Fight with the Centaurs, and other designs, excellent on the walls and roof of the great room. The gardens and appurtenances occupied together about seven acres. The first mansion was destroyed by a fire, which broke out in the night of January 22d, 1685, and burnt with so great violence that the whole house was consumed by five o’clock; but it was immediately rebuilt, and ornamented by artists sent from France for that purpose.

“The British Museum was opened to the public in 1759.”

I had often been to the College of Physicians, but never till this occasion been carried thither in the hands of a President, and my present master appeared to me to dwell with great satisfaction upon every part of the structure, and every thing connected with its history, which was probably not felt the less from the reflection that the distinction of the Fellowship had been conferred upon him without his having passed through the ordinary routine of an English academical education. For several years Dr. William Pitcairn was the leading Practitioner in the city, and thus afforded me an opportunity of observing more closely the manners of the wealthy inhabitants of that quarter, and contrasting them with the habits of the more polite and courtly end of the town, to which I had previously been chiefly accustomed. In 1784 he resigned the office of President, being succeeded by Sir George Baker; and in seven years afterwards died, when I was bequeathed to his nephew, Dr. David Pitcairn: this promising young man had realized the expectations formed of him in early life, and before he took his Doctor’s degree at Cambridge, had been elected Physician to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The commencement of his private medical practice may be dated about the year 1780, and he was placed at the head of his profession in London by the death of Dr. Warren.

I have spoken before of this eminent Physician, but his professional career was so brilliant, and attracted my notice in so remarkable a degree, that I must bestow an additional observation on his character. If posterity should ask what works Dr. Warren has left behind him worthy of the great reputation he enjoyed during his lifetime, it must be answered that such was his constant occupation in practice among all classes of people, from the highest to the lowest, that he had no leisure for writing, with the exception of a very few papers published in the College Transactions. But the unanimous respect in which he was held by all his medical brethren, which no man ever obtains without deserving it, fully justifies the popular estimate of his character. To a sound judgment and deep observation of men and things, he added various literary and scientific attainments, which were most advantageously displayed by a talent for conversation that was at once elegant, easy, and natural. Of all men in the world, he had the greatest flexibility of temper, instantaneously accommodating himself to the tone of feeling of the young, the old, the gay, and the sorrowful. But he was himself of a very cheerful disposition, and his manners being peculiarly pleasing to others, he possessed over the minds of his patients the most absolute control; and it was said, with truth, that no one ever had recourse to his advice as a Physician, who did not remain desirous of gaining his friendship and enjoying his society as a companion. In interrogating the patient he was apt and adroit; in the resources of his art, quick and inexhaustible; and when the malady was beyond the reach of his skill, the minds of the sick were consoled by his conversation, and their cares, anxieties, and fears soothed by his presence. And it may be mentioned among the minor qualities which distinguished Dr. Warren, that no one more readily gained the confidence or satisfied the scruples of the subordinate attendants upon the sick, by the dexterous employment of the various arguments of encouragement, reproof, and friendly advice. The height he had rapidly attained in his profession he maintained with unabated spirits till his death, which took place in 1797, at the age of sixty-five, at his house in Dover Street.

Dr. David Pitcairn resided many years in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and was early admitted a Fellow of the Royal and Antiquarian Societies. To these meetings it was my lot often to be taken, and gradually to become acquainted not only with the members, but, in the course of the various conversations which I overheard, to pick up a good deal of information connected with the former history and establishment of these learned bodies. I will endeavour to describe one of the most remarkable evenings passed at a meeting of the first of these Societies.

When I was in the service of Dr. Mead, the Royal Society met in one of the Professors’ Rooms in Gresham College; and many of the Members used to dine at Pontac’s, in Abchurch Lane. The house was kept by a Frenchman, who had been cook to M. Pontac, president of the parliament of Bourdeaux; and who, from respect to the memory of his master, hung up his effigies as the outward sign of his place of entertainment. Soon after their first incorporation by charter, these convivial meetings themselves were made subservient to the purposes of science, and were intended, as well as their more formal stated assemblies, to further the progress of knowledge. For it is related that on April 2d, 1682, at a supper where several of the Society were present, every thing was dressed, both fish and flesh, in Monsieur Papin’s digestors (then newly invented), and the philosophers ate pike and other fish bones, all without impediment; nay, the hardest bones of beef and mutton made as soft as cheese, and pigeons stewed in their own juice, without any addition of water. From this scientific entertainment one of the guests sent home a glass of jelly to his wife, to the reproach of all that the ladies ever made of their best hartshorn. But this was in the infancy of their establishment, when the zeal of the original founders of the Society was in its full energy. They had in fact only existed as a corporate body about twenty years, for it was in 1662 that Charles the Second granted them a charter, at a period which was certainly peculiarly favourable to the progress of science in Britain. The sudden restoration of the King had healed the divisions of party, and the effervescence of turbulent minds was directed to the advancement of knowledge, instead of political speculation. The germ of the Royal Society may indeed be traced a few years further back than the period now mentioned, since, so early as 1645, several ingenious men, residing in London, agreed to meet once a week to discourse upon subjects connected with Mathematics and Natural Philosophy. They assembled sometimes in Cheapside, at others in Gresham College, but chiefly in the lodgings of Dr. Goddard, in Wood Street. This last place was preferred, because the Doctor kept in his house an operator for grinding glasses for telescopes. The revolutionary troubles suspended for a time these meetings, but after the restoration they were revived in the apartments of Mr. Rooke, in Gresham College; a set of regulations was drawn up, and a weekly contribution of one shilling was collected from each of the members, in order to defray the expenses of their experimental investigations.

The chief objects of their association were to publish periodically all the discoveries which came to their knowledge, and to perform experiments. For the first of these purposes their Secretary was appointed Editor of their Transactions, the first Number of which appeared in 1665, by Mr. Henry Oldenburg[47]. They were not for some time continued regularly, owing to their limited sale, and to the small profit which accrued to the Editor. For the second purpose a person was appointed, with a salary, to contrive suitable experiments, and to have every thing ready for their exhibition: besides which they hired a man, whom they called their English itinerant, and who regularly gave an account of his autumnal peregrination about England, bringing dried fowls, fish, plants, animals, &c.

Such was the simplicity of this early establishment, when every step was a discovery, and every judicious experiment led the fortunate philosopher to eminence. In that infant period of science apparatus had been procured with difficulty, and the greatest philosophers were obliged to labour with their own hands to frame the instruments which they were to use. Hence it was found expedient to keep in the rooms of the Society a collection of all such machines as were likely to be useful in the progress of experimental knowledge. It was soon discovered that little progress could be made by an individual, and all felt the necessity of mutual co-operation. Money was, therefore, furnished for the purchase of convenient apparatus, curators and operators were employed, by whom many capital experiments were made under the eyes of the Society, and exhibited to the distinguished strangers who were invited to be present. Nor was this latter an uncommon occurrence. Immediately after they had obtained their charter, when Charles the Second intimated his intention of being present at one of their meetings, Sir Christopher Wren, who had been consulted upon the matter, suggested that His Majesty should be entertained with some experiments upon the barometer, which, besides being amusing, were useful and easy of exhibition.

The King was an experimenter himself, and had an elaboratory at Whitehall, though, whether he believed the philosopher’s elixir attainable, or had ever seen projection, does not appear. But having bought the receipt of the famous arcanum Goddardianum for the sum of £1500, His Majesty was wont to witness the distillation as it was going on. The drops were procured from raw silk, one pound of which yielded an incredible quantity of volatile salt, and in proportion the finest spirit that ever was tasted. The salt (a coarse kind of spirit of hartshorn) being refined with any well scented chemical oil, made the King’s salt, as it was used to be called. The experiments were shown to the King three years before the fire of London, which drove the Society from Gresham College; when they were invited by Mr. Howard to sit at Arundel House, in the Strand; who also bestowed upon them the noble library that had been collected by his ancestors. After the fire the Society returned to Gresham College, which when they finally left, they purchased a house in Crane Court, Fleet Street, where their meetings continued to be held, till the government, a short time ago, allotted them apartments in Somerset House. Since that period, the Club, which consists of the more select of the Society, have for many years dined at the neighbouring tavern, the Crown and Anchor; where, at half past five o’clock on each Thursday previous to the sitting of the Society, you are sure of meeting with very indifferent cheer, but excellent company. On the 7th April, 1791, I accompanied Dr. Pitcairn to the tavern, and met there Prince Poniatowsky, who had been invited as a guest. Sir Joseph Banks was in the chair. His Highness appeared about fifty, had a good face, was of middling stature, was dressed in black, had the order of Malta in his buttonhole, and wore his hair in a round curl.—When the dinner was over, after the usual toast, “the King,” Sir Joseph proposed the health of the King of Poland, which was drunk by the company. Soon after, the Prince took an opportunity of the President’s getting up for a moment or two from table, to propose Sir Joseph’s health.—From the tavern we adjourned to the apartments of the Royal Society in Somerset House, where the distinguished stranger, who had been balloted for on the preceding Thursday, was admitted a Fellow, as a sovereign prince, by the title of Duke de Lowitz. The President addressed him as Prince Primate of Poland; and he was styled in the minutes, “His Highness Prince Michael Poniatowsky, Prince Primate of Poland, Archbishop of Gnesna, and sovereign of the principality of Lowitz.”

When the meeting broke up, my master accompanied a very intelligent friend and Physician in his carriage home, and the discourse naturally turned to the subject of the eminent foreigner whom they had that evening seen. “You know,” said Dr. Samuel Foart Simmons, “that the Prince is the brother of the present King of Poland, and since his arrival in England I have seen a great deal of him, as he has done me the honour of inviting me frequently to his table. The motive of his visit to England at this moment is, to absent himself during the present session of the Diet, that he may avoid all interference in the question now agitated, relative to the succession. My introduction to him was through Dr. Szaster, a Polish Physician, whom the Prince had met at Paris, and who is much esteemed by him, and who was recommended to me by some of my friends. My first visit to His Highness, at his house, No. 11, Soho Square, which had been taken ready furnished for him, was in company with Dr. Grieve, who from his residence in Russia and Poland, and his consequent acquaintance with the languages and customs of those parts of Europe, has rendered himself very agreeable and highly useful. As a Polish dinner given in London was quite a novelty to myself, and perhaps may be so to you, I will describe it minutely. I was invited for four o’clock, and our party consisted of six: before we sat down to table a glass of Dantzick liqueur was handed round on a waiter, with which, as a foreign custom, we readily complied.

“On taking our seats, the Prince placed himself at the head, and I took a chair on his right hand, while His Highness’s Physician sat at the bottom and carved. Two dishes of oysters were first placed on the table, and a servant then handed round a plate of lemons, cut into halves. I was going to drink a glass of wine with Dr. Grieve, for decanters of wine stood on the table near us; but the Prince pleasantly observed, that he hoped as Physicians we would excuse him if he reminded us of an old Polish opinion, that beer and not wine should be drunk immediately after oysters. When the oysters were taken away, a tureen of soup, called by the Poles bosch, made of milk and beet-root, and having an acid smell, was placed at top, bouilli at bottom, and a dish of boiled tongue, sliced and mixed with vegetables, in the middle. The Physician cut slices of the bouilli into the dish, which a servant carried round to the company: the same ceremony was also observed with respect to the other dish. Then slices of buttered French roll, covered with a chocolate-coloured powder, which I understood to be grated hare, were handed about.—After the second course, which consisted of fritters, roast turkey, and some made dish in the middle, the dessert was put upon the table, and the servants withdrew. The Prince was in excellent humour, extremely communicative, and the conversation became interesting.

“He had dined a few days before with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who had told him an anecdote which had pleased him so much, that he had communicated it in a letter he had just written, and which was going by the next post to Poland. Before he sealed his letter, His Highness read that part of it to us. It related to a dramatic writer whose play had been a good deal applauded, and who was informed that on a particular night a great philosopher and mathematician was to be present at its performance. ‘This,’ said the author, ‘is the man for me: I shall long to hear what he says of my play. The opinion of such a judge will be really worth having.’ The mathematician took his seat in the centre of the pit; and when the performance was over, the author was anxious to have his opinion of the piece. ‘I find,’ said the philosopher, ‘that such an actress has pronounced 3284 words, that such an actor has pronounced 2864,’ &c.; and this was the only reply that the mortified dramatist could obtain.

“The Prince continued his amusing anecdotes, and related to us that one of his brothers had engaged a Frenchman as a pastry-cook, in which art he greatly excelled, but who was so drunken a fellow that a sentinel was always placed at the door to prevent his getting strong liquors before he had finished his work. At length, however, his frequent intoxication became intolerable, and it was necessary to discard him. He went to Dantzick, where he found a vessel bound to Petersburgh, in which he embarked; and, on his arrival in that city, accidentally heard of a nobleman near Moscow, who was in want of a preceptor for his son. The pÂtissier offered his services, was accepted, and travelled in an elegant coach to his destination. Of Italian, which he was to teach, he knew not a word; but being a native of Provence, he spoke the dialect of that part of France. This he taught his pupil, and was for some time in great credit. But the nobleman having at length a visitor who spoke Italian, the impostor was detected, and he was ignominiously driven out of the family. For some months he rambled about Tartary, and lived on the hospitality of different hordes; but after an absence of more than two years, finding his way back into Poland, he threw himself at the feet of his old master, and was taken again into his service, upon promising better behaviour in future.

“We now adjourned to another room, and drank our coffee, after which frankincense was burned before the Prince, who expressed a wish that we should not be in a hurry to depart. In the course of the evening it appeared that he did not think very favourably of the English writing travellers; particularly “ces gouverneurs,” as he called them, who eagerly catch up every thing they hear in conversation, for the sake of printing it. The English minister at Warsaw had observed to him, that he found himself oftentimes situated awkwardly enough with his raw young countrymen; but that this was nothing when compared with the trouble he had when they came accompanied with a travelling pedant as their tutor.

“Speaking of his brother, His Highness told us that he could speak English before his arrival in this country, which was in 1754; and added that George the Second, upon being informed that the King of Poland had remained a certain number of months at Paris, previous to his coming to England, asked why His Majesty had stayed there so long. ‘To learn English,’ was the reply.

“The conversation having turned on Russia, the Prince spoke of a certain courtier there, who, when Biron was disgraced, said, ‘Ay, that fellow was the cause of my losing two of my teeth.’ ‘How so?’ said somebody. ‘Why, because a dentist came here whom he patronised; and in order to pay my court to Biron, I sent for that man to draw two of my teeth.’ We next talked of Potemkin, who is said to have seduced five or six of his nieces, one after the other, and then to have married them off, except the youngest, who is now his mistress. He has the reputation of having always kept up his influence with the empress, notwithstanding her favours have been bestowed on so many others since his time, and of having always contrived to get his successors discarded whenever he found them acquiring too much power. Before we left, the Prince desired his secretary to bring out his orders: viz. his Order of the White Eagle, and that of Malta, both in brilliants, the latter of which was most admirably set.”

Here the Doctor left off speaking, and we reached home.

Prince Poniatowsky remained in England till June 13th, when he set out on his return to Warsaw. On his way through Holland he received intelligence of the revolution in Poland. The journey he had undertaken had originated in the circumstances which had paved the way for this event. At the opening of the Diet, he had pronounced a discourse which had directed the eyes of his countrymen to their real political situation, and this had gained him many enemies. He was now going back to share in the shortlived general joy. For this sudden and ill-concerted attempt to withdraw the kingdom of Poland from under the influence of Russia ultimately involved the exhausted republic in an unprosperous war, and was shortly afterwards followed by the loss of the fine and fertile provinces of the Lesser Poland and Lithuania[48].

The success of Dr. Pitcairn in practice was great, and though one or two other Physicians might possibly derive more pecuniary emolument than himself, certainly no one was so frequently requested by his brethren to afford his aid in cases of difficulty. He was perfectly candid in his opinions, and very frank in acknowledging the extent of his confidence in the efficacy of medicine. To a young friend, who had very recently graduated, and who had accompanied him from London to visit a lady, ill of a consumption, in the country, and who, on their return, was expressing his surprise at the apparent inertness of the prescription, which had been left behind, (which was nothing more than infusion of roses, with a little additional mineral acid), he made this reply, “The last thing a physician learns, in the course of his experience, is to know when to do nothing, but quietly to wait, and allow nature and time to have fair play, in checking the progress of disease, and gradually restoring the strength and health of the patient.”

The extensive practice of my master necessarily brought me in contact with every physician of any eminence, of whom the most prominent was unquestionably that profound and elegant scholar, Sir George Baker, the soundness of whose judgment was acknowledged by all. To him the whole medical world looked up with respect, and in the treatment of any disease in the least degree unusual, if it was desired to know all that had ever been said or written on the subject, from the most remote antiquity, down to the case in question, a consultation was proposed with Sir George Baker. From his erudition every thing was expected. He was particularly kind to the rising members of his profession, whom he encouraged and informed with great condescension and apparent interest. He was a native of Devonshire, was educated at Eton, and, afterwards, at King’s College, Cambridge. The accuracy and extent of his classical learning particularly engaged the respect and admiration of the members of those institutions; and to the inhabitants of Devonshire he rendered a signal service, by pointing out the source of that species of colic and subsequent palsy, which had long been the bane of that county. It was reported at the time of the publication of his “Essay concerning the Cause of the Endemial Colic of Devonshire,” that the farmers were much annoyed at his discovery; but every prejudice was at length overcome by the force of truth; and the use of lead in the construction of their cider vessels, which he clearly demonstrated to be the cause of that malady, has since been discontinued[49].

Sir George Baker commenced his professional career at Stamford, in Lincolnshire, to which place he had been invited by a large circle of friends whom he had known in early life; but this was a situation too limited for the exertion of his talents, and he soon removed to London. In the metropolis it was not long before he arrived at very extensive practice and reputation, and he was appointed Physician to Their Majesties. His character, his learning, and his authority rendered him for several years a distinguished President of the College of Physicians. As an author, he must be estimated rather by the value than the extent of his works; for his Thesis de affectibus Animi, published as an exercise at Cambridge in 1755, his Harveian Oration, and his two treatises, de Catarrho Epidemico and de Dysenteria Londinensi, are models of the purest and chastest classical style. With studious habits, and unassuming manners, he combined great playfulness of imagination, as will appear from the two following specimens of Latin pleasantry.

Epigram on two brothers who applied to Sir George Baker for advice nearly at the same time:

Which may be thus rendered in English:

On Mrs. Vanbutchel, who was preserved as a Mummy at the request of her husband, he wrote the following inscription. Under the superintendence of Dr. Hunter, Mr. Cruikshank injected into the arteries spirits of turpentine, coloured by vermilion. She died at the age of forty, and her body, thus prepared, was kept by her husband in his own house during his lifetime; at his death, his son presented it to the College of Surgeons, where it is now to be seen in a mahogany case.

This epitaph was first given imperfectly to the public in Franklin’s translation of Lucian, and, certainly, without the consent of the author.

To return to Dr. David Pitcairn: his manner was simple, gentle, and dignified; from his kindness of heart, he was frequently led to give more attention to his patients than could well be demanded from a physician; and as this evidently sprung from no interested motive, he often acquired considerable influence with those whom he had attended during sickness. No medical man, indeed, of his eminence in London perhaps ever exercised his profession to such a degree gratuitously. Besides, few persons ever gained so extensive an acquaintance with the various orders of society. He associated much with gentlemen of the law, had a taste for the fine arts, and his employment as a physician in the largest hospital in the kingdom, made known to him a very great number of persons of every rank and description in life. His person was tall and erect; his countenance during youth was a model of manly beauty, and even in advanced life he was accounted remarkably handsome. But the prosperous views that all these combined advantages might reasonably open to him were not of long endurance.

Ill health obliged him to give up his profession and quit his native country. He embarked for Lisbon in the summer of 1798, where a stay of eighteen months in the mild climate of Portugal, during which period there was no recurrence of the spitting of blood with which he had been affected, emboldened him to return to England, and for a few years more resume the practice of his profession. But his health continued delicate and precarious, and in the spring of the year 1809 he fell a victim to a disease that had hitherto escaped the observation of medical men. Pitcairn, though he had acquired great practical knowledge, and had made many original observations upon the history and treatment of diseases, never published any thing himself; but the peculiar and melancholy privilege was reserved for him, to enlighten his profession in the very act of dying. On the 13th of April, he complained of a soreness in his throat; which, however, he thought so lightly of, that he continued his professional visits during that and the two following days. In the night of the 15th his throat became worse, in consequence of which he was copiously bled, at his own desire, and had a large blister applied over his throat. On the evening of the 16th Dr. Baillie called upon him accidentally, not having been apprized of his illness; and, indeed, even then, observed no symptom that indicated danger. But the disease advanced in the course of that night, and a number of leeches were applied to the throat early in the morning. At eleven o’clock in the forenoon, Dr. Baillie again saw him. His countenance was now sunk, his pulse feeble and unequal, his breathing laborious, and his voice nearly gone. In this lamentable state, he wrote upon a piece of paper, that he conceived his windpipe to be the principal seat of his complaint, and that this was the croup. The tonsils were punctured, some blood obtained, and a little relief appeared to have been derived from the operation. Between four and five o’clock in the afternoon his situation seemed considerably improved; but soon afterwards a slight drowsiness came on. At eight, the patient’s breathing became suddenly more difficult, and in a few minutes he was dead. This was the first case of this peculiar affection of the throat that has been distinctly recognised and described. It was an inflammation of the larynx, or upper part of the windpipe, of so insidious a nature as hitherto to have passed unnoticed.

Although approaching to the well-known complaint called croup, it differs in some respects, particularly by the presence of the following symptoms:—Painful deglutition, partial swelling of the fauces, and a perpetually increasing difficulty of breathing. The mouth of the larynx, or aperture by which air is admitted into the lungs, is so much narrowed, that the vital functions are actually extinguished by the stricture. And yet the apparent inflammation in the throat is so inconsiderable, that upon a superficial observation, it would hardly be noticed; but in its progress the voice is changed, becomes altogether suppressed, and the disease terminates in suffocation.