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| Wellcome Library no. 20131i |
A
watercolour in the Wellcome Library (left) shows an interior with three
figures. In the centre a plump,
self-satisfied looking man looks down
with approval at the work of the second figure, on the right, who is Death
himself. Death is a tall and
physically active skeleton wearing a tie-wig: he vigorously stirs a pestle in a mortar to grind up
ingredients for medicines. Some pharmaceutical vessels are shown on the floor around
them, and the shelves in the background are full of apothecary's
glassware. The third figure is a woman
patient who sits in front of the fireplace on the left, gripped by illness.
The
obvious interpretation is that the man is an apothecary (pharmacist), hence the
glassware on the shelves of his house. Death is the apothecary's business partner,
making up medicines with lethal side-effects: clearly the woman is going to die
as a result of taking the harmful medicine. Right?
No,
not exactly. If the setting is an
apothecary's shop, the sick woman wearing night-clothes would be sitting in front of the fire in the
pharmacist's establishment, not in her own home. To explain that
improbability, one would have to assume that she is meant to be a member of his household -- which would rather reduce the applicability
of the joke and take the edge off the humour. As the watercolour is attributed
to the ever-humorous Thomas Rowlandson (1756-1827), that would be a problem.
A
possible clue to the subject came to light in January 2012 when Christie's in
New York offered at auction another watercolour version of the same composition, inscribed in what looks like Rowlandson's hand "Dr Brodum and
his assistant at work pro publico bono". [1] So who was Dr Brodum?
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| Wellcome Library no. 1397i |
Brodum
was therefore both a commercial medicine vendor and a doctor of medicine. Since
the two professions were theoretically distinct and incompatible, problems
could arise with the regulatory bodies, one of which was the Royal College of
Physicians of London. In practice, this combination was not unusual at the
time: Sir Hans Sloane, Dr Robert James, and Dr Richard Mead
were among physicians associated with proprietary medicines (chocolate in
Sloane's case), a fact which led one commentator to ask "Have not members
of the College dined at Dr Brodum's table?". [3] In any case, Brodum was
summoned before the College and told he could not accept consultation fees and
should remove from his house the brass plate which described him as “Dr
Brodum”. Brodum refused to accept this ruling, and the academic authorities in Aberdeen
did not appreciate the College’s scorn for the value of their doctorate. Brodum
continued to visit patients for an advertised cost of 5 guineas a week, while
outpatients could visit him at his house every Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday.
[4]
Whether
by accident or design,the goings-on in Rowlandson's watercolour fit this
situation perfectly. If the man is meant to be identified with Brodum -- he died in 1824 and Rowlandson in
1827 -- we need not ask whether it shows a medicine vendor or a physician. Brodum
and Death together make up the medicines at Brodum's pharmaceutical laboratory
in Southwark, while the patient in the background, huddled in front of her own
fireplace, represents the use to which the medicine will be put in Brodum's
medical practice.
[1]
Christie's, Old Master and early British drawings and watercolors, New
York, Rockefeller Plaza, 26 January 2012, lot 38
[2] Edgar
Samuel, 'Brodum, William (fl. 1767–1824)', Oxford dictionary of national biography,
Oxford University Press, 2004; online edn, Jan 2008. Brodum wrote that he was
"born and bred" in the same country as the Queen, Charlotte of
Mecklenburg-Strelitz, in north Germany (Guide
to old age, or, A cure for the indiscretions of youth, 1795, vol. 1, fol.
A2r)
[3]
Roy Porter, Health for sale, Manchester 1989, p. 9
[4]
William Brodum, Guide to old age, or, A
cure for the indiscretions of youth, 1795, pp. 153-155


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