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CONFESSIONS OF A QUACK DOCTOR.

Nec prosunt domino, quæ prosunt omnibus, artes.-OVID.

My days, my very hours are numbered; the cold | My mother's rage at this epistle may be conceivhand of death presses heavily and painfully upon ed. She instantly set off on a crusade against the me; I feel that this bed will be the last, save an phrenologist, and called on every neighbor and earthly one, on which the proprietor of the Balsam gossip in the place, denouncing the man's ignoof Bethesda will ever lie. Long ere these words rance, and proving it by his letter, and the well are in print, I shall be far beyond the reach of the known amiable qualities of her interesting child. indignation and censure of man; and it will ease I believe the lectures were, after all, as well attendmy parting moments, and be a last atonement, if I ed as ever. My father was angry with my mother lay before the public certain particulars wherein I for exposing the faults of his child, and told her she have played a conspicuous, though a deceitful part. ought to have hushed up the business. The poor At the same time, I must beg the reader to have the lady retorted, and a quarrel ensued. It was howcandor to bear in mind this remark: that what I ever made up; and the reconciliation was evidenthave done has been merely for the sake of gain, and ly sincere on my father's part, as he advised my not out of malice or ill will to my fellow-creatures mother the following day to leave off brandy and as a body, or to any individual in particular. water, which they always had been in the habit of drinking, as he thought ale would be better for her. Although she did as he recommended, my father lost his wife, and I, my kind parent in less than three months from that time.

I shall commence with a short sketch of my early life. My father, Reuben Killman, was a brewer, in a small market-town. He married, for his fourth wife, the daughter of the principal apothecary of the place. The issue of that marriage was the author of the present memoir. A short time before I was born, my poor mother had been reading the poems of the Poet Laureat, which made so great an impression on her, that she insisted on my being christened by the name of THALABA.

That dear parent was so fondly attached to her only offspring, that during her life she never would allow my tender frame to be exposed to the cruelty of a birch-bearing brute, as she feelingly styled that awful monster, the schoolmaster. On the contrary, she resolved to educate me herself; and, in order that she might direct my talents, of which she had the highest opinion, in the proper channel, she seized the opportunity of taking me, at the age of eight years, to be examined by a celebrated phrenologist, who had announced that he should enlighten the town by a few lectures on his subtle science. I well remember the laying on of hands of that slender gentleman. After duly examining the outward signs of my inward powers, he informed my mother that my developements were so in teresting and complicate, that he would take time for reflection, and send her a written opinion. The good lady, gratified by the pains and attention he was paying her favorite, slipped half a guinea into his learned palm, and went home to wait for the promised particulars.

The next day she received the following note:"MADAM,

"The real reason of my not announcing your son's organs yesterday, was, that I was anxious not to expose him before other parties; but the sacred obligation of truth compels me to state, that I find the organs of acquisitiveness and destructiveness so strong, that I can have but little doubt he will be led on from robbery to murder, and finally, end his days at the gallows, unless you take great pains in cultivating his organs of veneration, etc. as explained in my little work, price 11s. 6d.

"Your obedient servant,

"MANUEL PALMER."

I wished to put my mother's tortoise-shell cat inte mourning on the occasion, and as she tore the clothes I made for her, I resolved to blacken those which nature had given her with ink. I had just begun the operation, and had placed the unfeeling animal head foremost down in a boot, with a quart ink bottle in my other hand, when my father appeared. Seeing how I was occupied, he rushed towards me. The abruptness of his manner, (though I was doing no harm, but on the contrary a pious duty,) alarmed me. I fled; he pursued. He gained ground; I heard him puff close at my back. In my eagerness to escape, I attempted to jump over a cooler full of ale. I should easily have accomplished the leap, had it not happened that at that moment my father's hand arrested me by the trousers behind. He checked the impetus of my spring, and I fell, with the ink bottle, boot and cat, into the middle of the steaming liquid.

I screamed, the cat mewed, my father swore. But the death of my mother I suppose, had softened his heart; for, in a minute he recovered his good humor, laughed at the cat and me, and said “It did not matter, as the boot was the only thing that would be the worse for it." However he made up his mind to send me to school forthwith, “to improve my manners, and to have me out of harm's way."

To school I was sent, and there I semained till I was twelve years old, at which time my father sent for me home, put me into his counting-house, and taught me the arts of book-keeping and brewing.The latter I found was a far more intricate and mysterious process than the mere mixture of malt and hops.

Years went on: I grew up into a man; but as I advanced, the little town declined. It was not a place of much trade, and as the inhabitants died away, they were not rapidly succeeded by fresh settlers. The mortality of the place was certainly very great. The air was voted unhealthy, though

formerly it had been considered the reverse. By cured the Queen of Sardinia of dyspepsia vulgaris. some extraordinary fatality, my father's best eus- From those distinguished individuals, and others tomers were always the first to drop off. I felt for no less celebrated, he had received the most satishim, and myself, for I was now taken into partner- factory testimonials. ship; and my mind sympathized with Moore's beautiful lines:

:

"Oh! ever thus from childhood's bour
I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
I never nurst a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away.

I never nurs'd a dear gazelle

To glad me with its bright black eye,
But when it come to know me well,

And love, me it was sure to die!"

But, after all, what are gazelles to customers? and what is the sight of its eye to the sight of a bill for beer made out, ready for payment? Alas! these bills decreased as the town decayed, and ere long the Gazette presented the names of "R. Killman & Son, Brewers." The shock upset my father, he never looked up afterwards, and the very day week after the above announcement, I saw his heels standing out of a large marsh-tub. He had chosen the fate of Clarence.

I spent the interval, till the appearance of my advertisement, in writing out autographs of those illustrious persons, and in mixing my newly invented BALSAM OF BETHESDA. This consisted of stimulating and narcotic drugs, most of which had formerly been used by my respected father, but in more diluted quantities.

The first patient that ever visited me was an elderly lady, who complained of lowness of spirits. She said she was always miserable except when in company. Idid not wonder at this, when I heard her mode of life, which was, to play at cards to a very late hour every night, and to lie in bed till an equally late one the next day. She said she wished for some medicine which would not interfere with her usual engagements. I gave her three of my guinea bottles of the Balsam, and desired her to call again, when she had taken them. I saw her no more.

On referring to my Journal, (I had superscribed it my DIARY,) I find the next who came was of the same sex, but a very different age. Her complaint was love, and her lover had been fickle. I sold her two bottles of my Balsam. She called again in a week, said she had taken it all, had felt very sick and ill in body, but had quite got over her original complaint. I told her she had better have a couple of bottles by her for future occasions, to which she agreed. I understood that shortly afterwards she had a large sum of money left her, that, by a curious coincidence, she again met her former lover, who made her an offer, and they were married immediately. She is alive and well, and keeps my other two bottles by her, in case she should ever fall in love with any one else. Her marriage has my quite saved her from all danger of falling in love again with the same party.

With the few pounds left to me I fled from the fatal neighborhood to London. In that vast metropolis I had no chance of setting up in my trade again: there were too many in it already, with larger capitals, and equal skill in composition to myself. For some time I served in one of the principal breweries as a clerk-but my salary was so small, that I could neither pay for wine nor brandy; malt liquor I could not drink-I was too much behind the scenes for that-and for water, which I estimated at a very different value from that put upon it by Pindar, I had a constitutional antipathy-I was a second Tantalus, dying of thirst amidst a profusion of beverage I could bear it no longer-I left situation.

I was walking, with little in my pockets except my hands, in a most melancholy mood along Bloomsbury Square, when a man held out a paper to me I took it, and found it to be the puff of a patent medicine. A new light broke in upon me, I cried out," Eureka," and cut a caper in the air for joy.

My plans were quickly settled. I invested my remaining money in drugs, phials, and a chest, and set out on a tour to the country, resolving to commence, like an actor or counsellor, with provincial celebrity first. It was indifferent to me whither directed my steps, and the accident of seeing a notiee of reduced fares, led me to book my place for Birmingham.

The third case at Birmingham-but I will not go into the particulars.

Suffice it to say, it ended in a coroner's inquest. A verdict of manslaughter was returned, and I was put in prison to await my trial. At the assizes an error in the indictment entitled me to an acquittal, and, being set at liberty, I returned to my lodgings, put a long letter into the paper, proving the skill with which I had acted, and that I had been made the victim of the envy and malice of certain resident practitioners-and was as well attended as ever. Wonderful is the credulity of the public.

I tried my hand at several other towns; Manchester, Sheffield, Leeds, all had the benefit of my pre

The same success attended me at each of them; that is to say, I enriched myself and benefited my patients-by transplanting them to “another and a happier world."

As soon as I arrived at that populous town, I bold-sence. ly engaged a handsome lodging, and put an advertisement into the paper, wherein, drawing upon the credit of my future fame, I announced that DocTOR THALABA KILLMAN was to be consulted on every disease to which the human frame is liable, but he had more especially devoted his attention to nervous, cutaneous, chronic, epileptic, intestinal, and mental disorders. The doctor had studied the superior practice of the continent; he had been entrusted to draw the teeth of the Emperor of Russia, had operated on the King of Prussia for the stone, and

Having accumulated a considerable sum of money, I resolved to discontinue my wandering life, and open my grand campaign in the metropolis. I therefore made arrangements for the sale of my balsam with agents in the different places I had visited, and took a large house in Berners Street.

The first thing I did, was to compose a number of new testimonials. and to dress a man up in a strik

"Your humble servant,

BALAAM FREEMAN."

ing and appropriate costume, to dispense my an-ear has not only grown again, but is twice as large nouncements to the citizens. His dress was parti- as the other. colored-half green, to represent the last stage of the cholera, and half spotted, to signify the plague and eruptive diseases. The following is a copy of my circulars

"VIVE VALEQUE. Art thou afflicted, and would'st thou be healed? Go to No. 400, Berners Street, and consult Dr. THALABA KILLMAN. All diseases arise from one source, the unhealthiness and derangement of the system. To cure this, Dr. T. K., after intense study and long practice, by a heavensent thought discovered the wonderful, miraculous, and infallible BALSAM OF BETHESDA, Be timely wise. The poet has judiciously pointed out the three great desiderata of life, and which has he placed first?

'HEALTH, peace, and competence!'

I felt I had as much right to issue these testimonials, as Don Matthias had to forge love-letters to himself, and I am happy to say mine were more profitable than his. There were some other letters it is true, really and bona fide sent to me, which I did not publish, preferring those of my own invention.

The following I received from Nottingham.

"SIR:-For many years I have been enduring the worst pain that the human species, at least the male part of it, is liable too, I mean the tooth-ache! Year after year I suffered the parting pang of extraction, till only one tooth remained in my head. It was then that I heard the fame of your invaluable Balsam. Hope catches at a reed; I sent for a bottle.

"In addition to testimonials from several crown-In ny eagerness for relief from the fit of pain I was ed heads, Dr. T. K. has, amongst many others, received the following grateful acknowledgments from his own countrymen.

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Birmingham, Sept. 6.

"SIR: "I was born deaf, dumb, and blind, and continued in that melancholy state of privation till about a fortnight ago. I have often seen my parents mingling their tears for hours together, and when I have asked them the reason, they have answered in voices choked with sobs-We weep for thee! Think, sir, of their heart-felt delight at my perfect recovery of every faculty. Three weeks ago a friend recommended your balsam Less out of hope, than from a sense of duty, which prompted them not to throw a chance away, they bought a bottle. Before I had finished it, I could hear certain inarticulate noises, and could stammer a few words, and there was a glimmering of light. By the end of the seeond bottle, I could hear my mother's tongue going from morn till night, I could get in a word or two, and I could distinguish that her dear nose was red. The third bottle made a man of me. I could understand all that every body said in any language; I could see my mother's nose was turned up, and I could discourse as fluently as Lord Brougham. These are your doings, and they are acknowledged with a greatful heart by "Your obedient servant, "MATTHEW MOLE."

“To Dr. Thalaba Killman. "Sympathy Cottage, Coal Hole Alley, Leeds. "Miss Alicia Lætitia de Montmorency Sniggs presents her unfeigned acknowledgments to Dr. Killman, and begs to inform him that her little boy has been quite cured of a sore nose and the ring

worm, by two bottles of the Balsam of Bethesda. “ To Dr. Thalaba Killman.”

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then enduring, I put the neck of the bottle to my
mouth without waiting for a cup. The conse
quence was, I thurst my last tooth out of its place
and down my throat. Iswallowed it with the Bal-
sam, and from that day to this I have been free from
the tooth-ache.
Yours faithfully,

"To Dr. Killman."

44

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Sheffield, July 20th. "SIR:-You are a beast and a scoundrel; a rogue, cheat, a thief, a quack, an imposter! I bought two and they have made me worse. If I die, I'll be bottles of your stuff, to cure me of the stomach-ache,

a

dd if I don't haunt you.

"ALEXANDER LARGE." Notwithstanding Mr. Large's threat, I have always been less afraid of the dead than of the living; and as it will appear, with reason. For, after having carried on a most thriving trade for years, and having amassed a very pretty fortune, my end has been hastened in the following manner.

I had been taking a walk one evening, and had just returned to my own door, when as I raised my hand to the knocker, a person came quickly up to me, and inquired if my name was not Dr. Killman? On my replying in the affirmative, the wretch seized me with the grasp of Hercules, and holding me with the tenacity of a vice, belabored me with a bludgeon over the head and body, till I sank to the earth exhausted. He then went away, exclaiming, "Now, if I have not done for you, try your own balsam "

house. The blows on my head produced tempo-
I was found by the police, and carried into my
prescribed for me.
rary derangement. A doctor was sent for, and he
good an opinion of her master to let him take any
But my housekeeper had too
thing recommended by a stranger. She emptied
out the bottles as they were sent, and filled them
with BALSAM OF BETHESDA. Unconsciously I par-
took of my own invention, "In Dominum perniciosa
suum." Like Perillus, I have been the author of
what has caused my death. My reason has return-
ed, only to tell me I am dying. My housekeeper,
as soon as she thought I could understand her,
boasted of her artifice, and how she had been cheat-
ing the doctor.
THALABA KILLMAN.

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To you my lay I fain would trembling bring,
A frail memorial of those joyous hours,
When with no tempest nigh-no storm that lowers,
We fondly dream of life, a lasting spring!
They're past! yet memory oft her chain will fling
Around, and bear us back to learning's bowers:
Or in soft echoing numbers, gently sing,
The joys that in the classic shade were ours.
And oh! where e'er your path, whate'er your lot,
Whether 'mid life's gay scenes you hold your way,
Or in her quiet vales, delight to stray,

Still turn to days, when youth, with powers unspent,
Each day, new joys to careless bosoms lent,-
Nor let the friends who shared, be all forgot!

HAIL to thee, Island city! Lonely now
Amid the deep blue waters once thine own,
Cleaving the ocean, with no venturous prow:
Lost, lost, the glory once around thee thrown,
Thy sceptre broken, dimmed thy once bright crown,
No subject states shall now thy triumphs swell;
Thy days of power are o'er, thy splendors gone!
Still thou art Venice! Still does Fancy dwell
Upon the tale, how Venice reigned and fell.

Brief summary of glory! rose, reigned, fell!
And is this all that can be said of thee?
And can the bard or the historian tell
Nought else than this, bright Empress of the sea?
No! this is fame's poor all! Her splendors flee,
As when the sunset hues touch with their light,
The misty cloud, or rock-born mountain tree,
Gleam for an instant on the wildered sight,
Then vanishing, give place to gloomier night,

How much of meaning in those words "It was!"
How do they rouse the soul, and stir the heart!
How Fancy lingers there, and from them draws,
Scenes that from memory's tablet ne'er depart:
And when the vision's o'er, and when we start
To find it but a dreamn,-still gathered round,
Like the pale trophies of the sculptor's art,
We seem to see their forms; in every sound
A voice we hear; we tread on hallowed ground.

And thus it is with thee! if e'er thy name
Falls on the ear, 'tis sweet as music's tone;
Thy memory is as the vestal flame

That ne'er decayed, but glowing, pure, alone,
Amid a host of grosser altars shone :
And when we muse where once the haughty Queen
Of Ocean, fixed her gorgeous island throne,
In awe we silent pause: while what has been,
Mysteriously by Fancy's piercing eye is seen.

Quiet the waters lay! no gliding bark,
Broke their blue surface, on the girdled land
No trace of man was seen, but still and dark
They lay, by ocean breezes gently fanned!
Unbroken solitude! no venturous band

Had e'er disturbed the lone and sea-beat shore:
No boatinan's song was heard, no plashing oar,
Silence majestic reigned around the strand,
Nought, save the sea-mew's cry, and billows' roar.

First rose the fisher's rude hut to the eye,
His sail first caught the Adriatic's air!
Wealth, pomp, magnificence, was gathered there,
Then palaces and temples towered on high,
And on the damp and noisome sea-plain, where
Proud desolation sat in death-like state,
A thousand watery streets their burden bear,
A thousand barges with their glittering freight,
Shoot gaily on their way-'tis Venice proudly great.

And these were days of joy! 'twas then the wreath
Of glory, waved upon her haughty brow:
Scattered to fragments by a single breath
Of time, alas! where are its laurels now?
Then kings before her arm unconquered, bow:
Her sword flashed bright upon the crimson'd plain,
Her pennons waved to ocean's farthest flow!
Who, who, could deem that she must droop and

wane,

And sink at length, never to rise again?

Then when the morning came in glory forth,
Was heard the holy matin's solemn hum:
Soft stole the sacred notes-of heavenly birth
They seemed, so gently on the ear they come!
Rung out the bell, pealed forth the stirring drum,
The light Gondola shot across the wave.
How changed! the tones of praise are hushed and
dumb,

The boatman's hand is stilled, nought, nought,
could save;

Here Venice found a birth-place and a grave.

And when sad evening gently closed around,
And o'er the earth a holy stillness shed,
Then rose the vesper songs' unearthly sound;
Then fairy feet the mazy dances tread;
Or as his boat across the waters sped,
The lover's lute poured forth its melting strain:
Where have the hymn, the lute, the viol fled?
Shall they ne'er wake thy silent domes again?
Speak, Island Queen! Let me not ask in vain.

Methinks she answers; "Ask yon mortal, where
Are fled the gay throng and the echoing lute?
Hast thou the courage—will thy spirit dare-
To ope the tomb, the tomb hushed, breathless,
mute?

There may'st thou find them, there wilt see the fruit

Of all earth's pageantry-her pomp and pride! Read well the lesson, for thyself'twill suit: There rest they all, slow mouldering side by side, Their only history, they lived-they died!

Too sad the thought! to other scenes we turn
And live with beings of another age:
Again their crumbled hearts with passion burn,
Again earth's joys they seek, or muse the page,
Where genius poured its gushings, or the sage
Enrolled the treasured wisdom of a life!
Again we bring them on the world's broad stage,
Again with hope, with joy, with ardor rife,
They tread life's bustling path, and mingle in its
strife.

What shall we then review? the glittering crowd?
It suits not with the scene: it is not meet,
That here where pomp and pride to death have
bowed,

Gay visions should usurp proud Fancy's seat,
Or lightsome joyous dreams our souls should greet:
Then go we to the dim and sombre halls,
Where suppliant guilt low bending at the feet
Of mercy, claims one boon to pity's calls!
Enter we then the reverend moss grown walls.

It is a scene of Venice's earlier days!
There view the reverend sages of the law!
Immortal men! what tongues shall tell your praise?
While shrinking back with ill-defined awe,
Closer their mantles round their forms they draw,
Those guilty ones that there await their doom!
One is Carrara! dark the day, that saw
The champion hero, hurried to the tomb:

What recks he now of helm, or sword, or waving plume?

Yet stood he not alone: for by his side

A noble youth of lion port is seen!
Worthy his hero sire: his boast, his pride;
Unblenched his cheek, unquailed his warrior mien,
Calmly he gazes on the solemn scene!
Nay, hears unmoved the words that doam to death!
Nought has the power from apathy to wean
His haughty soul: freer he drew his breath
Than when he knelt to take the warrior's blood-
bought wreath.

"Carrara dies!" The words rang through the hall!
An instant fixed and motionless he stood-
Then nature claimed her right! her powerful call
Who can resist? Then while the heated blood,
Seemed bursting from his veins a crimson flood,
He knelt, and wildly plead to spare his sire!
'Twas nature's eloquence! his iron mood
Was gone! the golden chords of love's pure lyre,
Breathe forth once more, their notes of living fire!

Will ye not hear him? oh! 'tis nature pleads
In silence, far more cloquent, than aught
That tongue can utter: how his young heart
bleeds!

And shall his choking grief avail him naught?
Aro ye by sacred justice's precepts, taught
To have no heart to melt at filial love?
Affections can ye deem as sold or bought?

Has custom from your hearts all feeling drove,
Or did ye ne'er love's holy influence prove?

Still ere they part forever, ah! permit
A father, in his son's loved ear to pour
The thoughts that brooding on his spirit sit,
His hopes, his doubts, his fears, when life is o'er-
And from his wrung heart, stricken to the core
To give a father's blessing! ne'er again
Can the loved sounds be heard-uo, never more
His son, his loved one, can he fondly strain
To his o'erburthened breast-his hopes are all in
vain!

Shall Fancy venture further? shall she draw
Father and son clasped in each other's arms!
Thrice holy hour! when e'en the solemn awe
Of death, its deep felt fears, its dread alarms,
Strong agony with giant force disarms!
What then their spirits breathed she may not say!
What holy hope their grief tumultuous calms,
As with slow lingering steps, they're borne away,
A living death to die, with each returning day!

'Tis vain! 'tis vain! bid Fancy change once more,
Give brighter visions to the mental eye!
The light of gladness on the spirit pour!
Let joy with splendor in the picture vie:
Awake! and tell the mystic hallowed tie,
That bound proud Venice to the encircling sea.
A lighter, softer strain, Enchantress try,
Fling forth your notes in gentler harmony,
And sweep your lyre as mountain spirit free!

The moon is out-the snow-white sail
Is shooting ocean's bosom over,
Leaving behind her foamy trail,
Speeds gaily on the gallant rover!

A flood of glory poured from heaven,
Set like the last faint rays of even,
But glowing with empyreal light,
Bursts like a sca upon the sight.
Then gold and purple, mix and blend,
In fairy fashioned waves;
They change; in beauty now bend,
To spirit's cloud-built caves.

Embattled turrets now they seem Fleeting as fabrics of a dream! Like pennons now they seem to play, To hail fair Venice's bridal day."

Now swells the chaunt-on sweep the train-
Proud heaves the bright and sunlit ocean!
The bells rung o'er the glistening plain,
Each knee is bent in deep devotion!

The proud Bucentaur rides the wave
Home of the free, the bright, the brave!
What noble hearts are throbbing now,
As raised each eye, and bared each brow.
Venice's mystic ring is cast

Deep, in the sea's dark caves.
The word is said, and the pledge is past,
Where e'er her banner waves,
She claims the ocean as her own,
A vassal of her sea-girt throne!
Wide, chainless, fathomless and free,
She bids them own her sovereignty!

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