Atoning her weakness, Her evil behavior, Her sins to her Saviour." With what a shudder the prayer went brows. The callous Levite Society had seen | a hundred such wrecks-a hundred such suicides, who had taken the leap, in the dark midnight, from the fatal Bridge of Sighs, and it had passed on its way with mirth and music, sinning and suffering, glorying and rejoicing, but all unheeding of the victims and through startled society, pure and pleading, as the sound of vespers breaking on the satthe wreckages that were strown by the way-urnalia of Bacchanals. Hood was little side. But the poet-the good Samaritan-known to the world as a poet, until it recogcomes by, and the wounded are soothed by nized him one morning chanting this thrilling his healing hand, and the dead have decent strain on the Bridge of Sighs. Then came burial, with the unction of melodious tears. that terrible Song of the Shirt" straight The dark, the mean, the abject, are instantly home to men's business and bosoms, fastenradiated, and the dead past lifts a radiant brow, in the light of his loving countenance. ing shirt-like close to naked nature. It was a lightning-flash of revelation, rifting the It is the blessed and Christlike privilege of dark of a long and dismal night, which was poetry to take to her bosom whatsoever the made up of ignorance above, and misery beworld hath cast out. In her large heart is low. In the middle of that grim night did that fearful glare and piercing cry wake up the wealthy and the great from their luxurious beds and "lazy purples," and, as they looked down from their high windows, the poet showed them the human lives they were wearing out-the blood of little children wrung out to dye their costly crimson-the human hearts that were daily breaking-the thousands of humanity's sons and daughters that were born to be used up, starved, and transported annually, as surely as corn is grown to be eaten-how their path through the world, and the pavement of their palace fronts, were strown with the wrecks of room for what the sects are too narrow for. She will take the maimed, the halt, the blind, and the leprous, and restore them to the human fold. She will discover a soul of good in things evil, and penetrate to the fountainhead of the waters of love, in the nature where it is choked up with weeds and dust. She will seek to win back the fallen and degraded, and set the spirit once again upon the throne it has lost. And thus, from the death of a poor forsaken suicide, does the poet Hood draw lessons of charity, and pleads with such a tender pity, as though it were the voice of a loving sister, till the hardest heart is touched, and tears stand in the eyes of those who seldom weep. "Take her up tenderly, Rash and undutiful: Only the beautiful. Into her rest. trampled human-kind-how the track of their chariot-wheels was followed with groans, and curses, and tears of blood-how it was their brethren who were forever broken on the wheel of their car of progress -their sisters who stitched their lives into their work for 44d. per day, and were driven into the midnight streets and lanes to sell the sweet name of Love for bread, in order that they might eke out their means of subsistence. From their lofty windows they stared aghast; some, indeed, cursed the voice of the poet that had so rudely broken their voluptuous dream, and they slunk back to their silken pillows. But the rest stared on, and could not turn away. The "Song of the Shirt" was the first summons of the army of the poor which had besieged the citadel of wealth. The very music of it was like. the march of ten thousand men, who come, with dogged step, set teeth, and flashing eyes, to demand redress for their long sufferings and wrongs. It had an ominous sound. Men looked at one another, and, for every poor one pale with want, there was a rich one white with fear. The wealthy had not known, or did not care to know, what want and wretchedness existed around them, and how small a space they were from the gnashings of hunger, the effluvia of disease, and the seething fires of revolution. They saw not, or shut their eyes to, the scenes in which the bravest human heart might well despair, go mad, curse God, and die-where the children of labor, born in tears, are dragged up in misery, often sapped of their nature's finer feelings, or hurried by them into sin and crime, in the spring of life, robbed of their manhood, and left to toil on, starving, and starving still toil on, till they end their life's dark destiny in the pauper's grave, or the convict cemetery. None but the poor know what the poor endure. But this song led England to see that there were, in London alone, 33,500 poor women, working for from 2 d. to 5d. per day. benevolent and noble schemes put forth and adopted, to alleviate the distress that existed? That it was great, we know-how great, we can never know. This was the waking at midnight; and society caught a glimpse, by the light of the poet's lamp, of that great morning that has yet to break upon us, when we shall look upon the face of each other, and see them in a new light, and know that we are brothers-brothers who have been tearing each other in the hand-to-throat strife, with the gloom hanging so thick and heavy about us, and the infernal din ringing so loudly in our ears-brothers who, having drifted into this Maelstrom of competition, like the brothers in Poe's tale, are struggling in a death-struggle for the last spar of safety, endeavoring to rise up on the floating wreck of each other's fortunes. What That the splendid fabrics of her manufac- a fearful waking for many that will be! ture were partly composed of human life- And it will come, although the world, havthat England's hands were red with the ing some thought of what awaits it, still blood of her martyred children, that her wraps itself round as comfortably as it can, throne was built on broken hearts, and the slouches the hat over the eyes to shut out as root of her greatness drew its sustenance much as possible, sticks cotton in its ears, from rotting humanity-it rang through Eng- sets a million wheels in motion, to stifle the land like the trumpet that calls to judgment, moans and the cries, and hurries on its whirlor like the voice of the prophet of old, seek- wind way, "arm-in-arm with the flesh and ing for the ten righteous men to save the the devil." In these, and some other songs, doomed city, and it was successful in finding Hood is the poet of the poor; he uttered that them in time to avert the coming destruc- which had never before found utterance. The tion. It touched the truest and tenderest poor owe him their hearts' best thanks. He string in the heart of aristocracy. Society had an eye to see into their secret sorrows, began to investigate the appalling truth. It and a heart keenly alive to their wrongs went down into the dens of poverty, and saw silent sufferings. His own life was a hard upwhat a real hell was there. It discovered, hill struggle. Arthur Hallam has recorded that side by side with our boasted magnifi- that "pain is the deepest thing we have in cence was the most hideous squalor, and the our nature, and union through pain has almost alarming misery. Sympathy for starv-ways seemed more real and holy than any ed seamstresses, and tailors sweated down to starvation-point, was roused, and speedily became active in bettering the condition of the poor. Hood took the "shirt" from the hands of that poor woman who sat in unwomanly rags, and turned it into a very Nessus shirt on the back of England. The "Song of the Shirt" called forth a tide of feeling so strong and impetuous, that it threw down and overleaped many an ancient barrier that had so long divided the rich from the poor. It was an equivalent for the horrible poorlaw system, which severed the last human link between them-a link that existed even in feudal times, when the lord and the serf did meet sometimes at the hall or castle-door, and charity and gratitude shook hands. Who can compute the influence that these songs exerted for good, or how powerfully they contributed to bring about the many and other;" and such was the nature of Hood's We know how it went with him. Unfortunately, whenever there is a man to be rescued, and one who is worth rescuing, there is no one particular person to do it. After he is dead and gone, many would have done it, and wonder why it was not done. What is everybody's business, is no one's. The aggregate body of the world is slow and unwieldy, and, like the English Cabinet, it is always too late. "Tis a brave, thankful world in the end, but it seldom discerns the true thing wanted at the right time. In conclusion, let us look for a moment behind the curtain of our poet, when he played Mr. Merryman, who in the pages of "Punch," and in his public and private whims and oddities, created more laughter in his time than any other ten men put together, and we find that his mirth and merriment were often like that of the poor clown who had to make merry on the stage while his child lay dead at home, and make the sides of his audience shake with laughter, while his own inside was trembling with weakness. Necessity, the stern, imperious taskmaster, stood over poor Hood, and made him laugh for his living, like a master draper whom we once knew in a house that we lived in, who, having taken a dislike to the serious look of one of the young men, said to him, "Come, sir, I don't allow any one to look black or frown in my shop. Now, sir, let me instantly see a smile on your face." This was done for very wantonness, in his love of being tyrannical. Instead of knocking him down, the poor fellow burst into tears. Looking from Hood, with his best face on, and broadest grin, before the public, to Hood in his own study, is very like a realization of that anecdote told of Liston, the great farce actor, whose face was so droll and provocative of risibility that you could not look upon it seriously, who was the nightly delight of uproarious thousands, and whom people went to see, if they wanted to get rid of the blue devils and shake the cobwebs out of their internals. Liston, off the stage, was often a poor hypochondriac, sunk into a state of deadly despondency. On one occasion, being lower, darker, sadder than usual, he went to consult old Dr. Abernethy. The doctor saw that it was extreme lowness of spirits, and knew that he wanted medicine for the mind and not for the stomach. He did not know who his patient was, and so he said to him, "You only want cheering up; a good hearty laugh would do you good. I'll tell you what'll cure you." "What," said Liston. "Go and see Liston!" said the old doctor; "he'll set VOL. XXXIV.-NO. II. tle you." I dare say the actor took his advice, without deriving much benefit from the prescription. Hood was similarly circumstanced; and that which was medicine to thousands beside, had no healing power for him. He always turned the sunny side of his life to the world, while he himself sat in darkness. When very frail and feeble, and in the illness from which he never recovered, he thus gives us a bit of his cheerful philosophy. In the preface to "Hood's Own" inimitable collection of prose and verse, and grotesque etchings, he says:-"In the absence of a certain thin blue and-yellow' visage and attenuated figure-whose effigy may one day be affixed to this work-you will not be prepared to learn that some of the merriest effusions in the forthcoming numbers have been the relaxations of a gentleman literally enjoying bad health-the carnival, so to speak, of a personified Jour Maigre. The very fingers so aristocratically slender, that now hold the pen, hint plainly of the ills that flesh is heir to;' my coats have become greatcoats, my pantaloons are turned into trousers; and, by a worse bargain than Peter Schlemihl's, I seem to have retained my shadow, and sold my substance. In short, as happens to prematurely-old port wine, I am of a bad color, with very little body. But what then? That emaciated hand still lends a hand to embody in words and sketches the creations or recreations of a merry fancy; those gaunt sides yet shake heartily as ever at the grotesques, and arabesques, and droll picturesques that my good genius (a Panta gruelian Familiar) charitably conjures up, to divert me from more sombre realities. How else could I have converted a serious illness into a comic wellness? By what other agency could I have transported myself, as a Cockney would say, from Dullage to Grinnage? It was far from a practical joke to be laid up in ordinary in a foreign land, under the care of physicians quite as much abroad as myself with the case; indeed, the shades of the gloaming were stealing over my prospect; but I resolved that, like the sun, so long as my day lasted, I would look upon the bright side of everything. The raven croaked, but I persuaded myself that it was the nightingale; there was the smell of the mould, but I remembered that it nourished the violets. However my body might cry craven, my mind luckily had no mind to give in. My physician tells me that anatomically my heart is hung lower than usual; but what of that? The more need to keep it up. tle reader, how do you like my laughing 12 Gen philosophy? The joyous cheers you have just heard come from a crazy vessel that has clawed by miracle off a lee-shore, and I, the skipper, am sitting down to my grog, and recounting to you the tale of past danger, with the manoeuvres that were used to escape the perilous point." And thus he bore up and held on, cheerfully and bravely to the last, under many a terrible circumstance. Though the vessel of his life was frail and weather-worn, he would not desert it cowardly, but steered it right on into the harbor, which, we trust, was that haven of promise where the storms never rage, and sorrows come not, and there is no more pain, but the storm-tossed spirit folds its weary wings, and the toil-worn mariner of life's sea finds rest upon the bosom of eter nal peace. From the London Quarterly Review. SIR ASTLEY COOPER AND ABERNETHY.* THE career of the medical man is emphati- | cally one of private life. He has to do with the sufferings and griefs of the individual; and, although he may kindle the warmest emotions of admiration and of attachment in the minds of a great number of isolated persons, his calling is unfitted to excite the plaudits of public enthusiasm, even when the qualifications exhibited are of the highest order. The ministrations of the Church are addressed to the public; and, therefore, when marked by pre-eminent merit, they are simultaneously recognized as such by the public. The Law attracts a full share of popular attention, and more than a full share of public rewards; not because, in its nature, of higher worth or tending to nobler ends, but because it declares the rights and guards the interests of the community, as well as those of individuals, and its functions are carried on in the presence of associated numbers. The Physician or Surgeon, on the contrary, has no dealings with the community as such, and his claims upon its component parts cannot be recognized or felt in common. It is thus unusual for a member of the medical profession to occupy a prominent place in the public eye. Nor, even when such publicity does occur, is it always to be taken as a proof of extraordinary merit, either professional or otherwise, since, like popularity in other spheres, it may arise from meretricious causes, and possess none of the ele ments of worth or permanency. In modern times many specimens of the professional character could be produced, in whom nothing seems wanting in natural gifts, scientific attainments, or practical aptitude, but only a larger and more conspicuous field for their exercise,-to justify a bold comparison with the most famous names in the annals of medicine. The greatness that impresses the popular mind is seldom, if ever, recognized in a member of the healing profession. If Esculapius was really received among the number of the gods, living or dead, the Greeks must have cherished sentiments that form no part of modern natures. Many men have existed, and many still live, whose entrance into a company elicits the spontaneous expression of universal regard and interest, the token of general appreciation of services, real or 1. The Life of Sir Astley Cooper, Bart., inter-imagined, which they have rendered to their spersed with Sketches from his Note-Books, &c. By BRANSBY BLAKE COOPER, Esq., F. R. S. In Two Volumes. London: John W. Parker. 1843. 2. Memoirs of John Abernethy, F. R. S., with a View of his Lectures, Writings, and Character. By GEORGE MACILWAIN, F. R. C. S., &c. Second Edition. In Two Volumes. London: Hurst and Black ett. 1854. species. The leading statesman, the successful soldier, and the eloquent lawyer, commonly receive these and yet more substantial the world's enthusiasm ever excited to a like marks of public appreciation; but when was extent by a career, however able, long-continued, or arduous, devoted to the develop ment and application of principles whose results can be exhibited only in the welfare of the individual? There may be plausible reasons assigned, and even principles of our nature adduced, which may partially account for this neglect; but it may be doubted whether the fact be not a reflection upon the estimate formed by mankind of their benefactors, and upon the justness of their scale of recompense. And yet the qualities required in those who deservedly obtain the laurel in medicine, are among the highest that can be found in any sphere of exertion. Being both a science and an art, it equally requires the possession of reflective and practical talents. The treatment of each case of disease is a piece of reasoning; a large amount of general princi ples, each of these the result of induction from a vast number of instances, is brought to bear upon the facts of a particular case, which may not, in all its circumstances, resemble any other case whatever; and by the daily and hourly repetition of the process, the reasoning faculty must necessarily acquire both acuteness and vigor. Foresight in the detection of danger, and ingenuity in the adaptation of means to ward it off, are essentially requisite. Promptness of action, sagacity, discrimination, and the power to influence the wavering minds of others in moments of peril,-these and other qualifications might be instanced, and would form materials for a comparison with the requirements of the Pleader at the bar or the General in the field. If to these qualities be added the subordination of personal feelings and objects to the good of others, and the kindly sympathy with suffering, which have generally characterized the medical profession, there will appear ample claims upon the respect of the public towards it as a whole, and a just call for a sympathizing interest in those whom its members acknowledge as their chiefs. Notwithstanding, however, the general rule which thus exists,-tending directly to exclude the hope of fame as a powerful motive of the medical practitioner,-the last half-century presents, in this country, two remarkable exceptions, in the persons of John Abernethy and Sir Astley Cooper. The names of these men have spread far beyond the limits of the profession to which they belonged, and have originated numerous popular legends, which have alternately interested and amused the public. The recent appearance of "Memoirs of Abernethy" presents a favorable opportunity for passing in review the principal events in the career of both; nor is there wanting, as a further inducement, a certain curiosity, that seeks its gratification in looking behind the curtain which ordinarily veils the thoughts and acts of those engaged in a somewhat fearful and mysterious calling. ASTLEY COOPER was the fourth son of the Rev. Dr. Samuel Cooper, of Yarmouth, in the county of Norfolk. His mother was a daughter of Mr. Bransby, of Shottisham, a co-heiress descendant from the family of Paston; a lady of considerable intellectual attainments, and the authoress of several works of fiction, which had much popularity in their day. Astley was born at Brooke, in Norfolk, on the 23d of August, 1768. The classical part of his education was superin. tended by his father, but does not appear to have extended very much beyond the rudimentary stages of Latin and Greek; nor do we find, at any subsequent part of his life, any reference to classical tastes or acquirements. According to a well-known principle, when he afterwards became celebrated, it was the custom to refer his first attachment to the medical profession to the accidental circumstance of his having had the presence of mind to compress a wounded artery, and thus to save the life of a young friend, imperilled by a serious accident. However this may have been, he was apprenticed, at the age of fifteen years, to a Mr. Turner, a general practitioner, of Yarmouth. His residence with this gentleman was short, as we soon find him availing himself of that which formed the first great facility of his early professional life, and, in all probability, constituted his chief inducement to the particular walk which he adopted. His uncle, Mr. William Cooper, was at that time one of the Surgeons to Guy's Hospital, and Astley was taken by him into his house, as a pupil. This arrangement, according to the exclusive system, prevailing then as now, of confining the surgical offices of the Hospital to those who have been articled pupils to the Surgeons attached, opened the way to his ultimate appointments of assistant, and then full, Surgeon to Guy's. His uncle appears to have been somewhat old-fashioned in his views; and Astley, in those days, was high-spirited, frolicsome, and idle. The consequence was, that disagreeable discussions became so frequent, as ultimately to lead to a transfer of his indentures to Mr. Cline, at that time the more eminent colleague of Mr. William Cooper. This transfer, which was in all probability brought about by Astley in consequence of Cline's superior reputation, was attended by the best professional results. |