CHAPTER VII.
MEDICINAE DOCTOR.
Humphrey did not, like Benjamin, brag of the things he would do whenhe should go forth to the world. Nevertheless, he thought much abouthis future, and frequently he discoursed with me about the life thathe fain would lead. A young man, I think, wants someone with whomhe may speak freely concerning the thoughts which fill his soul. Wewho belong to the sex which receives but does not create or invent,which profits by man's good work, and suffers from the evil which hetoo often does, have no such thoughts and ambitions.
'I cannot,' he would say, 'take upon me holy orders, as Mr. Boscorelwould have me, promising, in my cousin Robin's name, this livingafter his death, because, though I am in truth a mere pauper anddependent, there are in me none of those prickings of the spiritwhich I could interpret into a Divine call for the ministry; next,because I cannot in conscience swear to obey the Thirty-nineArticles while I still hold that the Nonconformist way of worshipis more consonant with the Word of God. And, again, I am of opinionthat the Law of Moses, which forbade any but a well-formed man fromserving at the altar, hath in it something eternal. It denotes thatas no cripple may serve at the earthly altar, so in heaven, of whichthe altar is an emblem, all those who dwell therein shall be perfectin body as in soul. What, then, is such a one as myself, who hathsome learning and no fortune, to do? Sir Christopher, my benefactor,will maintain me at Oxford until I have taken a degree. This is morethan I could have expected. Therefore, I am resolved to take adegree in medicine. It is the only profession fit for a mis-shapencreature. They will not laugh at me when I alleviate their pains.'
'Could anyone laugh at you, Humphrey?'
'Pray heaven, I frighten not the ladies at the first aspect of me.'He laughed, but not with merriment; for, indeed, a cripple or ahunchback cannot laugh mirthfully over his own misfortune. 'Some menspeak scornfully of the profession,' he went on. 'The great Frenchplaywright, Monsieur Moliere, doth make the physicians the butt andlaughing-stock of all Paris. Yet consider. It is medicine whichprolongs our days and relieves our pains. Before the science wasstudied, the wretch who caught a fever in the marshy forest lay downand died; an ague lasted all one's life; a sore throat putrefiedand killed; a rheumatism threw a man upon the bed, from which hewould never rise. The physician is man's chief friend. If ourSovereigns studied the welfare of humanity as deeply as the art ofwar, they would maintain, at vast expense, great colleges of learnedmen continually engaged in discovering the secrets of nature--thecauses and the remedies of disease. What better use can a man makeof his life than to discover one--only one--secret which will driveaway part of the agony of disease? The Jews, more merciful than theRomans, stupefied their criminals after they were crucified; theydied, indeed, but their sufferings were less. So the physician,though in the end all men must die, may help them to die withoutpain. Nay, I have even thought that we might devise means of causingthe patient by some potent drug to fall into so deep a sleep thateven the surgeon's knife shall not cause him to awaken.'
He, therefore, before he entered at Oxford, read with my fathermany learned books of the ancients on the science and practice ofmedicine, and studied botany with the help of such books as he couldprocure.
Some men have but one side to them--that is to say, the only activepart of them is engaged in but one study; the rest is given up torest or indolence. Thus Benjamin studied law diligently, but nothingelse. Humphrey, for his part, read his Galen and his Celsus, buthe neglected not the cultivation of those arts and accomplishmentsin which Mr. Boscorel was as ready a teacher as he was a readyscholar. He thus learned the history of painting, and sculpture,and architecture, and that of coins and medals, so that at eighteenHumphrey might already have set up as a virtuoso.
Nor was this all. Still, by the help of the Rector, he learned theuse of the pencil and the brush, and could both draw prettily, orpaint in water colours, whether the cottages or the church, thecows in the fields, or the woods and hills. I have many picturesof his painting which he gave me from time to time. And he couldplay sweetly, whether on the spinnet, or the violin, or the guitar,spending many hours every week with Mr. Boscorel playing duettostogether; and willingly he would sing, having a rich and fullvoice, very delightful to hear. When I grew a great girl, and hadadvanced far enough, I was permitted to play with them. There was noend to the music which Mr. Boscorel possessed. First, he had a greatstore of English ditties such as country people love--as, 'Sing alla green willow,' 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,' or 'Once I loveda maiden fair.' There was nothing rough or rude in these songs,though I am informed that much wickedness is taught by the ribaldsongs that are sung in playhouses and coffee-rooms. And when we werenot playing or singing, Mr. Boscorel would read us poetry--portionsfrom Shakspeare or Ben Jonson, or out of Milton's 'Paradise Lost';or from Herrick, who is surely the sweetest poet that ever lived,'yet marred,' said Mr. Boscorel, 'by his coarseness and corruption.'Now, one day, after we had been thus reading--one winter afternoon,when the sun lay upon the meadows--Humphrey walked home with me,and on the way confessed, with many blushes, that he, too, had beenwriting verses. And with that he lugged a paper out of his pocket.
'They are for thine own eyes only,' he said. 'Truly, my dear, thouhast the finest eyes in the world. They are for no other eyes thanthine,' he repeated. 'Not for Robin, mind, lest he laugh: poetryhath in it something sacred, so that even the writer of bad versescannot bear to have them laughed at. When thou art a year or twoolder thou wilt understand that they were written for thy heart aswell as for thine eyes. Yet, if thou like the verses, they may beseen by Mr. Boscorel, but in private; and if he laugh at them do nottell me. Yet, again, one would like to know what he said; wherefore,tell me, though his words be like a knife in my side.'
Thus he wavered between wishing to show them to his master in art,and fearing.
In the end, when I showed them to Mr. Boscorel, he said that, for abeginner, they were very well--very well, indeed; that the rhymeswere correct, and the metre true; that years and practice wouldgive greater firmness, and that the crafty interlacing of thoughtand passion, which was the characteristic of Italian verse, couldonly be learned by much reading of the Italian poets. More he said,speaking upon the slight subject of rhyme and poetry with as muchseriousness and earnestness as if he were weighing and comparingtexts of Scripture.
Then he gave me back the verses with a sigh.
'Child,' he said, 'to none of us is given what most we desire.For my part, I longed in his infancy that my son should grow upeven as Humphrey, as quick to learn; with as true a taste; with ascorrect an ear; with a hand as skilful. But----you see, I complainnot, though Benjamin loves the noisy tavern better than the quietcoffee-house where the wits resort. To him such things as verses,art, and music are foolishness. I say that I complain not; but Iwould to Heaven that Humphrey were my own, and that his shoulderswere straight, poor lad! Thy father hath made him a Puritan: heis such as John Milton in his youth--and as beautiful in face asthat stout Republican. I doubt not that we shall have from the handof Humphrey, if he live and prosper, something fine, the natureof which, whether it is to be in painting, or in music, or inpoetry, I know not. Take the verses, and take care that thou losethem not; and, child--remember--the poet is allowed to say what hepleases about a woman's eyes. Be not deceived into thinking----Butno--no--there is no fear. Good-night, thou sweet and innocent saint.'
I knew not then what he meant; but these are the verses, and I trulythink that they are very moving and religious. For if woman be trulythe most beautiful work of the Creator (which all men aver), then itbehoves her all the more still to point upwards. I read them witha pleasure and surprise that filled my whole soul, and inflamed myheart with pious joy:--
Around, above, and everywhere The earth hath many a lovely thing; The zephyrs soft, the flowers fair, The babbling brook, the bubbling spring.
The grey of dawn, the azure sky, The sunset glow, the evening gloom; The warbling thrush, the skylark
high, The blossoming hedge, the garden's bloom.
The sun in state, the moon in pride, The twinkling stars in order laid; The winds that ever race and ride, The shadows flying o'er the glade.
Oh! many a lovely thing hath earth, To charm the eye and witch the soul; Yet one there is of passing worth-- For that one thing I give the whole.
The crowning work, the last thing made, Creation's masterpiece to be-- Bend o'er yon stream, and, there displayed, This wondrous thing reflected see.
Behold a face for heaven designed; See how those eyes thy soul betray-- Love--secret love--there sits enshrined, And upwards still doth point the way.
When Humphrey went away, he did not, like Benjamin, come blusteringand declaring that he would marry me, and that he would break theskull of any other man who dared make love to me--not at all;Humphrey, with tears in his eyes, told me that he was sorry I couldnot go to Oxford as well; that he was going to lose the sweetestcompanion in the world; and that he should always love me; andthen he kissed me on the forehead, and so departed. Why shouldhe not always love me? I knew very well that he loved me, andthat I loved him. Although he was so young, being only seventeenwhen he was entered at Exeter College, I suppose there never wasa young gentleman went to the University of Oxford with so manyaccomplishments, and so much learning. By my father's testimonyhe read Greek as if it were his mother tongue, and he wrote andconversed easily in Latin: and you have heard what arts andaccomplishments he added to this solid learning. He was elected to ascholarship at his college, that of Exeter, and, after he took hisdegree as Bachelor of Medicine, he was made a Fellow of All Souls,where Mr. Boscorel himself had also been a Fellow. This election wasnot only a great distinction for him, but it gave him what a learnedyoung man especially desires--the means of living and of pursuinghis studies.
While he was at Oxford he wrote letters to Sir Christopher, to Mr.Boscorel, and to my father (to whom also he sent such new books andpamphlets as he thought would interest him). To me he sent sometimesdrawings and sometimes books, but never verses.
Now (to make an end of Humphrey for the present), when he hadobtained his fellowship, he asked for and obtained leave of absenceand permission to study medicine in those great schools which farsurpass, they say, our English schools of medicine. These are thatof Montpellier; the yet more famous school of Padua, in Italy; andthat of Leyden, whither many Englishmen have resorted for study,notably Mr. Evelyn, whose book called 'Sylva' was in the Rector'slibrary.
He carried on during the whole of this time a correspondence withMr. Boscorel on the paintings, statues, and architecture to be seenwherever his travels carried him. These letters Mr. Boscorel readaloud, with a map spread before him, discoursing on the history ofthe place and the chief things to be seen there, before he began toread. Surely there never was a man so much taken up with the finearts, especially as they were practised by the ancients.
There remains the last of the boys--Robin, Sir Christopher'sgrandson and heir. I should like this book to be all aboutRobin--yet one must needs speak of the others. I declare, thatfrom the beginning, there never was a boy more happy, more jolly;never anyone more willing to be always making someone happy. Heloved the open air, the wild creatures, the trees, the birds,everything that lives beneath the sky; yet not--like my poor brotherBarnaby--a hater of books. He read all the books which told aboutcreatures, or hunting, or country life; and all voyages and travels.A fresh-coloured, wholesome lad, not so grave as Humphrey, nor sorustic as Barnaby, who always seemed to carry with him the scent ofwoods and fields. He was to Sir Christopher, what Benjamin was toJacob. Even my father loved him though he was so poor a scholar.
Those who stay at home have homely wits; that is well known:therefore Robin must follow Humphrey to Oxford. He went thitherthe year after his cousin. I never learned that he obtained ascholarship, or that he was considered one of the younger pillarsof that learned and ancient University; or, indeed, that he took adegree at all.
After he left Oxford he must go to London, there to study Justice'sLaw and fit himself for the duties he would have to fulfil. Also hisgrandfather would have him acquire some knowledge of the Court andthe City, and the ways of the great and the rich. This, too, he did;though he never learned to prefer those ways to the simple customsand habits of his Somerset village.
He, too, like the other two, bade me a tender farewell.
'Poor Alice!' he said, taking both my hands in his, 'what wilt thoudo when I am gone?'
Indeed, since Humphrey went away, we had been daily companions; andat the thought of being thus left alone the tears were running downmy cheeks.
'Why, Sweetheart,' he said, 'to think that I should ever make theecry--I who desire nothing but to make thee always laugh and behappy! What wilt thou do? Go often to my mother. She loves thee asif thou wert her own daughter. Go and talk to her concerning me. Itpleaseth the poor soul to be still talking of her son. And forgetnot my grandfather; play backgammon with him; fill his pipe for him;sing to the spinnet for him; talk to him about Humphrey and me. Andforget not Mr. Boscorel, my uncle. The poor man looks as melancholysince Humphrey went away as a turtle robbed of her nest. I saw himyesterday opening one of his drawers full of medals, and he sighedover them fit to break his heart. He sighed for Humphrey, not forBen. Well, child, what more? Take Lance'--'twas his dog--'for arun every day; make George Sparrow keep an eye upon the stream forotters; and--there are a thousand things, but I will write themdown. Have patience with the dear old man when he will be stilltalking about me.'
'Patience, Robin,' I said. 'Why, we all love to talk about thee.'
'Do you all love to talk about me? Dost thou, too, Alice? Oh, mydear, my dear!' Here he took me in his arms and kissed me on thelips. 'Dost thou also love to talk about me? Why, my dear, I shallthink of nothing but of thee. Because--oh, my dear!--I love theewith all my heart.'
Well, I was still so foolish that I understood nothing more thanthat we all loved him, and he loved us all.
'Alice, I will write letters to thee. I will put them in the packetfor my mother. Thus thou wilt understand that I am always thinkingof thee.'
He was as good as his word. But the letters were so full of thethings he was doing and seeing, that it was quite clear that hismind had plenty of room for more than one object. To be sure, Ishould have been foolish, indeed, had I desired that his lettersshould tell me that he was always thinking about me, when he shouldhave been attending to his business.
After a year in London, his grandfather thought that he shouldtravel. Therefore, he went abroad and joined Humphrey atMontpellier, and with him rode northwards to Leyden, where hesojourned while his cousin attended the lectures of that famousschool.
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