A first-hand second opinion of early Texas doctors: Part Four

Those of you who have read a lot of this blog know that I love to quote a Washington County doctor when writing about the Republic days. Dr. John W. Lockhart is another early leader in the region that was also one of our local doctors. He was also a passionate writer, and probably would have been a blogger had he been born in this era. Dr. Lockhart wrote some enlightening passages about the status of the early Texas doctor, which explains this common feature, that of physician-politician, of Republic of Texas doctors.

Evidently, the chasm was so great between the ignorant and unschooled and the learned and degreed, that an educated man was something of a god. I’ll let Dr. Lockhart explain in his own words…

“It was a long way to a medical college then, and no conveyances except horse-back and long stage rides, which consumed many days. It was almost an impossibility for a man to moderate circumstances to obtain a degree. But when he did, and settled in the town or little village, or the crossroads, he was a power in the land. The words which fell from his lips were like so many oracles. He was always profuse in medical terms. These not being understood by the people, made him a greater genius. The old ladies flocked about him to catch the wise words he uttered.

He was considered the biggest man in the neighborhood, not excepting the circuit rider. He had no one to fear, except the crossroad politician; and he could always be bribed with a few bitters, which the doctor knew exactly how to make. Once in his good graces, the doctor could bleed and blister to his heart’s content…

… It was wonderful to see the influence the oracle in the neighborhood had with the people. In all cases of law he was consulted; and to add importance to his opinion, he kept a copy of the decisions of the lower court on hand. The part that appertained to the practice of the justice court was well worn from the numerous references made when settling questions arising in the neighborhood. What he said in the premises was regarded as almost supernatural.

His opinion was sought with equal regard to medicine, religion, astronomy, astrology, and all things appertaining to science. But his greatest genius ran in the way of politics. No man need run for office in the precinct, unless he first obtained the doctor’s consent, or his assistance. To do otherwise, would be to court certain defeat. However, that other wise man of the precinct who succeeded in getting himself elected justice of the peace, was a man to be reckoned with- the only man the doctor need fear.”

Dr. Lockhart went down in local history as a great benefactor of his community, and was seemingly loved and trusted by all and deserved that trust, but even he had trouble treating those whose faith was built on superstition…

“Negroes objected to taking calomel and castor oil more than any medicine. The former they believed was made from the bones of dead people ground to powder, and the latter they believed to be the grease made from the bodies of the dead. These facts were the actual truth to them; and in some instances, force had to be resorted to, to make them swallow it.”

Dr. Lockhart also wrote of the struggle with ye age old wives tales…

“…In Texas- for instance, in the country where there were no doctors, the lady of the house had to do all the doctoring; and would resort to barks, weeds, and all things thought to have medicinal properties. For instance, she substituted the inner bark of the ash for action on the liver and bowels. This she prepared by cutting off the rough exterior bark, using the inner white portion. This she boiled- throwing out the fibre, and when the juice had simmered to the consistency of tar, it was mixed with flour and rolled into pills.”

I’ll offer this one last quote from the good doctor, who won my heart with such balanced skepticism, on all sides... here he comments on a doctor's convention, and he seemed to touch on a timeless argument…:)

“Many specific papers were read before this body which were a credit to the authors and the profession. Diseases were discussed, and their causes and cures. The germ theory also had its advocates. Microbes, bacilli, and the like were ably handled; and if the doctors do not quit finding so many things existing in the air we breathe, and the food we eat and the water we drink, they will starve this nation out.”

[From: SIXTY YEARS ON THE BRAZOS]

Not much has changed and will not, whenever we match man’s capacity against the handiwork of an Infinite God.

I want you to know about the next generation of doctors that flooded into Grimes County after the Civil war, only to be almost decimated by a Yellow Fever epidemic in 1867.

Next time… on the Navasota Current.

Lockhart, the name, the story, our Legacy

No I'm not a Lockhart, as far as I know. I am a distant offspring of the McDougald clan, a bunch of rowdies that hired out as mercenaries over the centuries, and helped to establish the Royal Galloglas. Other Scottish names like Hamilton, Bein, and Spraggins dot my genealogy as well. Still, this legend of the Lockhart speaks to me for several reasons.

Sure it is a stretch, but even a watered-down descendant can appreciate what his ancient countrymen thought to be noble and great, even fifteen generations ago.

Some of what they thought and did, and perhaps not enough, still affects our attitudes and our culture today.

I am fascinated by men with such resolve and devotion to a single leader, who would obey a command from his deathbed that would require immense sacrifice.

I wonder what of this character still lingers in the hearts of our people, and me, today.

The Lockharts of Washington County had no doubt, just one hundred years ago, that they too were unmistakenly cut from this cloth, even though they left it to the reader of their book to decide. They inserted the poem, for all to decide, whether Dr. Lockhart was worthy of such an ancestor. Most who read his book would say he was.

In this poem, "Sir Simon of the Lee," is mentioned early on. But the poem does not explain that after the tragic battle where "The Douglas" is killed trying to save his compainion Sir William of St. Clair, and in the process hurls the heart of the Bruce into the rushing Moors, it is Simon who retrieves the locked case which contained the heart of the beloved King, and is entrusted to keep it. He was from that day on called "Lockhart." Just picture that if you can.

"Hey Lockie, what's that stinkin' in yer saddlebag?"

Much later the heart of the Bruce was buried in the floor of a church. And then even more recently was exhumed, inspected, and buried again, this time with a wonderful insignia you see at the top of the page, to mark the spot.

As in most great legends, there are more questions than answers. Why was King Robert the Bruce so intent on his heart of all things, being buried near the grave of Jesus, knowing full well that Jesus' body was not there? What kind of man who supposedly loves his countrymen would make such a wild and costly request? What kind of man would be able to cut out the heart of the Bruce in the first place? What kind of men would put everything aside, leave their families and business concerns, and travel so far at their own expense to deliver such a cargo? What kind of men, when stumbling upon somebody elses war, would set aside their sacred task to join the battle? Even lead the charge?

And after meeting such a deadly encounter, what kind of men go home, content to just bury the heart of the Bruce in his own countrie, after all? The lack of a welcoming committee, upon their return from such an expedition, says volumes. There was little glory in it, and yet, in the Scottish mind, it was Divine. Things like keeping your word, pitching the heart of a great king into the pagan hordes, dying in an effort to fulfill his last request, then scooping up the heart once again, these were actions of sane, good men. Helping some pitiful Spaniards in the defense of their homeland was a gentlemanly thing to do. Worth dying for. They saw the Cross of Christ as sacred, and much to His chagrin I'm sure, considered war against other Christians as war against themselves. They saw no conflict between random wars and the King of Peace. They were an odd lot, and yet they seemed to have a grip on what was important to them, a selfless love for one another, and the courage to face death for their convictions. What kind of me were these?

Skutsmen.

You see it was Robert the Bruce that left an enormous clue as to the ancient identity of the Scots. He explained that it was his ancestors who came over from the Caspian region, via a short stay in Egypt, where they served as mercenaries. They stopped for awhile in the Mediterranian, and Iberia before settling in Ireland and finally the northern British Isles. Actually, they were "Skuts." This word was lost to us during the Romanization of our language. We began to read a hard C as an s sound, and a Y as an i, rather than the Celtic uh. Robert the Bruce knew that his people were the lords of the Russian Steppes, the inventors of chariots and trousers and the compound bow. They were the greatest bowmen and horsemen and horsebreeders that ever lived, the Skuthani, what we call "Scythians" today. Some of the Persians were Skuths. Buddha was a Skuth. It was Skuths who established "Scythopolis" in Judea. The Macedonians were really Makedani, Skuts who established Greece. later Rome was ruled by ancient descendants of the Russian Kazhars, and called their leaders Caesar, pronounced Kaezar. When we look upon Sir Simon of the Lee and wonder, we are looking at the apex of four thousand years of freckle-faced, red headed, fiery tempered, wandering, venting, inventing, intervening, brother cleaving, heart locking, freedom loving fools. And I'm sort of proud to be one. Or proud to be sort of one.

When King Robert the Bruce sent his heart to the Holy Land, he was sending it H O M E, to the East, the Celtic Motherland. Or as much a home as the Skuthani peoples had ever known, and perhaps the most special. These people, the descendants of the legendary Japhethites, had migrated and settled into, and became known as Ashkenaz, Togarmah, Gomer, Madai, Galatians, Galicians, Gauls, Armenians, Macedonians and many groups famous in Biblical times. Robert saw his tribe as the westernmost vanguard of the nomadic sons of Japheth.

Skutani. Scythians. Scots. Kazhars. Armenians, Cimmerians. Parthians. Phrygians. We have lost so much of our heritage and character. And words like stour and dree and lyart, and their meanings. Yet some of it is right here, unchanged after the relentless layers of ages. Anything with a wheel, anything made of iron or steel, anything to do with horses, or cattle, or pigs, anything to do with hunting, especially with a bow, anything to do with warfare, wagons, mining, metal arts, trading, and sure, a little pirating and looting and raiding every now and then... Maybe with our modern technology, we can know who we are better than ever. If cultural identity and multiculturalism are good for our children, maybe it could be good for us, to understand who we are and who we were. Even who we can be. Robert the Bruce knew.

Now so many hundreds of years ago, it is stunning to read of one who was so motivated by his fathers from hundreds, perhaps thousands of years before, as to send his comrades thousands of miles back to the motherland, to make a point. Robert was saying to his countrymen; This is WHO YOU ARE. Go there, take my heart with you. Remind yourselves of your legacy, your heritage and traditions. Never forget where you came from. And they tried. And Lockhart was entrusted with the cultural icon that represented all those things... and perhaps it was he who first coined: "Home is where the Hart is."

And the fact that I spend your time and mine pondering these relics of the past proves I have at least an ounce of Scottish blood left in me, that is still stirred by such a tale, or entirely too much time on my hands. Yet I look upon them with as much amazement as I would a Comanche warrior, perhaps more so, because I know that somewhere, deep within that wild primitve mind, resides mine.

The Heart of the Bruce, Part II

There's a story here and I'm getting to it... But you really need to read these words to wrap your head around it. To bring new readers up to speed, this is the conclusion of an old poem about the Lockhart family of Scotland and how they got their name. The poem is entitled "The Heart Of The Bruce," and was written ages ago. King Robert the Bruce of Scotland left instructions to his knights to take and bury his heart, (after his death) in the Holy Land. You can read the beginning of this poem in an earlier blog. On their way, the knights ran into some Spaniards outnumbered by some Moselm invaders, and decide to do a good deed, and this is how the legend goes...


We bring our great King Robert’s heart,
Across the weltering wave
To lay it in the Holy soil,
Hard by the Savior’s grave.

“True pilgrims we, by land or sea,
Where danger bars the way;
And therefore we are here, Lord King,
To ride with thee this day!”

The King has bent his stately head,
And the tears were in his eyne –
“God’s blessing on thee, noble knight,
For this brave thought of thine!

“I know thy name full well, Lord James;
And honored may I be,
That those who fought beside the Bruce,
Should fight this day for me!

“Take thou the leading of the van,
And charge the Moors amain;
There is not such a lance as thine
In all the host of Spain!”

The Douglas turned towards us then,
Oh but his glance was high!—
“There is not one of all my men
But is as bold as I.

“There is not one of all my Knights
But bears as true a spear—
Then onwards Scottish gentlemen,
And think King Robert’s here!”

The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew,
The arrows flashed like flame,
As spur in side and spear in rest,
Against the foe we came.

And many a bearded Saracen
Went down, both horse and man;
For through their ranks we rode like corn,
So furiously we ran!

But in behind our path they closed,
Though fain to let us through,
For they were forty thousand men,
And we were wondrous few.

We might not see a lance’s length,
So dense was their array,
But the long fell swoop of the Scottish blade
Still held them hard at bay.

“Make in, make in!” Lord Douglas cried—
“Make in my brethren dear!
Sir William of St. Clair is down;
We may not leave him here!”

But thicker, thicker grew the swarm,
And sharper shot the rain,
And the horses reared amid the press,
But they would not charge again.

“Now Jesu help thee,” said Lord James,
“Thou kind and true St. Clair!
An’ if I may not bring thee off,
I’ll die beside there!”

Then in his stirrups he stood,
So lion-like and bold,
And held the precious heart aloft
All in its case of gold.

He flung it from him, far ahead,
And never spake he more,
But – “Pass thee first, thou dauntless heart,
As thou were wont of yore.”

The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,
And heavier still the stour,
‘Till the spears of Spain came shivering in
And swept away the Moor.

“Now praised be God, the day is won!
They fly o’er flood and fell—
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
Good knight that fought so well?”

“Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!” he said,
“And leave the dead to me,
For I must keep the dreariest watch
That ever I shall dree!

“There lies above his master’s heart,
The Douglas stark and grim;
And wo is me I should be here,
Not side by side with him!

“The world grows cold, my arm is old,
And thin my lyart hair,
And all that I loved best on earth
Is stretched before me there.

“O Bothwell banks! That bloom so bright
Beneath the Sun of May,
The heaviest cloud that ever blew
Is bound for you this day.

“And Scotland! Thou may’st veil thy head
In sorrow and in pain:
The sorest stroke upon my brow
Hath fallen this day in Spain!

“We’ll bear them back unto our ship,
We’ll bear them o’er the sea,
And lay them in the hallowed earth,
Within our own countrie.

“And be thou strong of heart Lord King,
For this I tell thee sure,
The sod that drank the Douglas' blood
Shall never bear the Moor!”

The King he lighted from his horse,
He flung his brand away,
And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.

“God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!
That fought so well for Spain:
I’d rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!”

We bore the good Lord James away,
And the priceless heart we bore,
And heavily we steered our ship
Towards the Scottish shore.

No welcome greeted our return,
No clang of martial tread,
But all were dumb and hushed as death
Before the mighty dead.

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
The heart of fair Melrose;
And woeful men were we that day—
God grant their souls repose!