Geoffery Gambado. Cobbold Richard

      Geoffery Gambado A Simple Remedy for Hypochondriacism and Melancholy Splenetic Humours

      Preface

      Some years ago, sixteen original sketches by Henry Bunbury, Esq. were given to the Author of this Book. This celebrated sketcher and caricaturist was a gentleman well known in the county of Suffolk for his public and private virtues, as well as for his superior talents. He was a lineal descendant of the Rev. Sir William Bunbury, whose baronetcy was created in 1681. Of a cheerful and lively temper, he sought to infuse the same spirit through all ranks of society. If we mistake not, his son became Sir Henry Bunbury, and represented the county of Suffolk, as his uncle, Sir Thomas Charles Bunbury, had done before him.

      His descendants still occupy the mansion and estates in Suffolk, where they have been, and are still, the great benefactors to the poor, and the parish of Great Barton near Bury St. Edmund's.

      But we have to speak more particularly of Henry Bunbury, Esq. and his talents. To this day, his accurate delineations of the political and social customs of the age he lived in, and of the characters who came under his observation, are remarkable for their truthful force. It is very seldom that men of high life and good education, possess the artistic power of graphic delineation: at least, we have but few amateur delineators who can stand the test of the invidious sneers and jeers of those empty possessors of wealth and station, who consider themselves degraded even by the acquaintance of an artist, a poet, or a literary character. Now, if a man is not a degraded man, but lives himself after the law of God, he need never mind the scoffs or ridicule of any man; but may say, as Henry Bunbury did to those who ridiculed him, – "Evil be to him who evil thinks."

      In the Sketches contained in this work, the difficulty was to make out what kind of story they told; for though some persons might see in them nothing more than ridicule upon the Annals of Complete Horsemanship, yet those who knew the man, and knew the disposition he always entertained, namely, a desire to do evil to no man, but good to all, thought that his intention was to cure some over-sensitive minds of morbid and melancholy feelings, which ought not, unreasonably and unseasonably, to overwhelm them, and destroy their energies.

      It was not that he ridiculed real affliction, or ever, in any one of his drawings, sought to give a pang to the real mourner; but he really loved a cheerful disposition; and could not bear that man should be afflicting himself with imaginary diseases, when a little self-exertion, or diversion, would restore his right tone of bodily health, and be the means of doing him good.

      We have adopted these views of our celebrated talented Suffolk gentleman, and have endeavoured to turn his pictures to this profitable account. They represent horses, and costume of fashion or fiction, long since exploded; but they represented real persons, whom he knew, and many were reckoned inimitable likenesses. Caricature is itself a species of broad, or excessive resemblance of fact; let it be represented by Shakspeare's Falstaff, – Hogarth's Marriage a la Mode, – Dickens' Pickwick Papers, – Macaulay's Stories of Historical Persons, (introduced into his popular History of England), – or of Punch, – or of that greatest of all powerful pencil delineators of character, George Cruikshank. We leave out the popular novelists, or poets, who have written funny as well as serious things; – all, more or less, have taken advantage of caricature skill, to prove their acquaintance with the ridiculous.

      Cowper is generally looked upon as a serious poet, yet he wrote "Johnny Gilpin." But we will make no more excuses for our present work. We will only add that it was originally conceived for a charitable purpose, and is now made use of as such.

      The Author of the Illustrations has long since departed this mortal life; and the Author of the Narrative, not seeking the reputation of his own name, does not give it to the world; but, apologizing for his interpretation of the sketches, desires only to do good. If any should be entertained, and will kindly send any mark of their favour to the Publisher, for the Author, the word of a Gentleman is given, that, whatever it may be, it shall be strictly devoted to public good.

      THE FRONTISPIECE

      Reader! did you ever see an angel on horseback?" "No!" No more did I, that I know of! We read of one in (II. Maccabeus, c. 3); but then he was clad in armour of gold, and rode a most powerful animal, who smote with his forelegs the avaricious Heliodorus. But here we see a very different representation, both as to horse and rider, and engaged in trumpeting forth the praises of the celebrated

      Doctor Gambado.

      "Gambado! Sempre viva! Encora! Encora!" In fact, it is termed "The Apotheosis of Geoffery Gambado, Esq. M.D. F.R.S."

      Now this angel might be a daughter of Doctor Gambado's, or she might be his scullery-maid. She is represented on a horse, which, instead of being a winged Pegasus, stands well upon his pegs, and seems to have lent his wings to the damsel herself, to bear both himself and her "in nubibus." She holds a medallion of the Doctor, a striking portrait, in her right hand; and in her left, the celebrated brazen trumpet of Fame; and, no doubt, whether his angelic daughter or his faithful domestic, she was one who knew so well the admirable worth of the good physician, that she simply means to say, – "May the cheerful spirit of such good men as Doctor Gambado live for ever, and drive out of all splenetic patients, the tormenting stings of the Blue Devils."

      If he can do this, his canonization will indeed be immortal, though it be trumpeted forth by so humble an instrument as the angel we here see represented on a wooden horse.

      Reader, the humblest instrument in the world may, in the hand of wisdom, be used as an angel for your own good. The poor fellow who lifts you up from the ground, should you happen to fall, may be the helping hand provided you. The messenger who finds you in suffering, and sends the doctor to your relief, may be the unknown angel for your deliverance.

      A poor boy, or a poor girl, who snatches you, in your infant days, from the peril of a pond, may be used as an angel for your welfare.

      Do not always expect to see angels in golden armour for your deliverance; though the generous and charitably-good Samaritan, the friend in need, may be the friend indeed at the hour you most require him, – only be humble, only be thankful, and even this poor picture may be a message of comfort to your spirit; for

      CHAPTER I

      It is time we should speak something of this celebrated person, and account for his present position and appearance. He is very unlike any modern physician. A hundred years ago, however, we have no doubt that such was a fac-simile of this noble specimen of an equestrian medical proficient. It is a hundred years ago since the original sketch of him was made, which we have endeavoured to copy. We have to account for finding him in such a position. First, Who was he? What was he? Where did he live? What did he do? And how came he into notice at all?

      Most men are born somewhere! and except they become noted for something they have done, it is very seldom that any inquiry is made about them at all. Neither the place of their birth, nor the locale of their fame, or name, or habitation, of their death, or marriage, is made of any moment whatsoever.

      Alas! those who are most ambitious of fame, seldom get it whilst they live; and very few, ever, as literary men, are exalted to a title, like Lord Macaulay; whilst those often feel they are praised for what they own they do not deserve, are more humbled by their reputation, than they are exalted.

      It was said to Gambado, in the day of his greatest reputation, "We will certainly have you in Westminster Abbey?"

      "Thank you, my dear fellow," was his reply; "I would rather eat a mutton chop with you at the Mermaid Tavern, in the street I was born in, than lie along with John Milton, (who was born in the next street to mine), or with any of those worthies, Shakspeare, Raleigh, or Ben Jonson; who can no longer eat a mutton chop with us at their old Tavern: