Passages from the diary of a late physician / by Samuel Warren, author of 'Ten thousand a-year'.

  • Samuel Warren
Date:
[1890]
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: Passages from the diary of a late physician / by Samuel Warren, author of 'Ten thousand a-year'. Source: Wellcome Collection.

Provider: This material has been provided by Royal College of Physicians, London. The original may be consulted at Royal College of Physicians, London.

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    number but few college fviomis, none of wliom were in London. Neither my wife nor I knew more than live people, besides our Indian lodger ; for we were all the world to one anotlier, and cared little for scraping togetlier proniiHCU- 0U3 acquaintance. If we liad been inclined to visiting, our straitened cir- cumstances would have Ibrliid our in- curring tlie ex]ieiises atUiclied to it. What was to lie done? My wife would say, 'i'oli, love, we shall contrive to get on as well as our neiglihours ;' but the fact was, we were not getting on like our neighliours, nor did I see any prospect of our doing so. I began to pass sleepless nights, and days of des- pondency, casting about in every di- rection for any eniploynieut consistent with my profession, and redoubling my fruitless efforts to (ditaiii practice. It is laughable to say, that our only receipts wei'e a few guineas, sent from old Mr. Asperne, the propi'ietor of the European Magazine, as remuneration for a monthly medical summary with which I furnished him, and a trille or two from Mr. Nicholls, of the Gentle- man's Magazine, as an acknowledgment for several sonnets sent by my wife. Knowing the success which often at- tended authorship, as tending to ac- quire for the writer a reputation for skill on the subject of whicli he treated, and introduce him to the notice of the higher members of his jirofession, I determined to turn my attention that way. For months I was up early and late at a work on Diseases of tlie Lungs. I bestowed pains on it; and niy toil was sweeteneil by my wife, who would sit by me, in the summer evenings, en- couraging me with predictions of suc- cess. She lightened my labour by un- ilertaking the transcription of the manuscript; and I thought that three hundred sheets of regular handwriting were heavily purchased by the impair- ed eyesight of ihe beloved amanuensis. When it was completed, having been revised twenty times, so tliat there was not a comma wanting, I hurried, full of fluttering hopes and fears, to a medical bookseller, expecting he would pur- chase the copyright. Fifty poun<ls I had fixed in my mind as tlie minimum of what I would accept; and I hail ap- propriated some part of it towards buy- ing a silk dress for my wife. Alas 1 even in tliis bi'anch of my profession, my hopes were doomed to disajipoint- ment. The bookseller received me with civility ; listened to evei-y word I had to say ; seemed to take some in- terest in my tiew views of the disease treated of, which I ventured to as- sure him, would attract public attention. My heart leajieii for joy c9 I saw his business-like eye settled on me with attentive interest. After hav- ing talked myself hoarse, and llnslied myself with excitement, he removed his spectacle:?, and assuied me of liis I approbation of the work; but that he had ilelerniiiied never to iniblish any more medical books. I have the mobt vivid recollection of almost turning sick with chagrin. I asked him if that was his unalterable determination ? He replied it was ; for he had ' lost too much liy speculations of that sort.' As soon as I lelt his slio]i, I let fall a tear of sorrow and mortihcation. I could have wept aloud. At that moment, whom should I meet but my dear wite ! for we liad both been talking all niglit long, and all breakfast-time, about tlie probable result of my interview with the bookseller; and her affection would not permit her to wait my return. She had been jiacing the other side of the street, and Hew to me on my leaving the shop. I could not speak; I felt almost choked. At last her expres- sions of tenderness and sympathy soothed me into a more equable frame of mind, and we returned to dinner. In the afternoon I offered it to another bookseller, who told me he ' never did that sort of thing.' I offered it subse- quently to every medical bookseller I could tind,with like success. One snuBl- ed out, ' If he might make so Itold,' he would advise me to leave oft' book- making, and stick to my practice ; an- other assured me he had got two simi- lar works in the press ; and the last I consulted told me I was too young to have seen enough of practice for writ- ing 'a book of that nature,' as his words were. ' Publish it on your own account, love,'said my wife. That was out of the question, for I had no funds ; and a kind-hearted bookseller, to whom I mentioned the project, assured nie that, if I went to press, my work would fall from it still-born. When I return- ed home from making this last attempt, I flung myself into a chair by the fire- side, opposite my wife, without speak- ing. Tliere was an anxious smile of solicitude in her face. My mortifieil air convinced her that I was disap- pointed, and that six months' hard la- I hour were thrown away. In a fit of uncontrollable iiassion, I flung the manuscrijit on the fire ; but Emily snatched it from the flames, gazed on me with a look such as none but a de- voted wife could give—threw her arms round my neck, and kissed me back to calmness, if not haiijiiness. I laid tlie manuscript on a slielf in my study; and it was my first and last attempt at msdical book-making.