As Terry had not yet cast up his accounts, and the stomach-pump was at hand, I determined to make a little more capital out of the case, and thrusting the long, flexible India rubber tube down poor Terry’s throat, having separated his teeth by means of a stick, and holding his head between my knees, I soon had the satisfaction of depositing the laudanum and tartar emetic in a swill pail, the only article of the toilet the place afforded.
After years proved Terry and Biddy most loving companions. He never, even when drunk, more than threatened her “wid a batin’, which she was desarvin’,” and she never forgave “that divil’s baby, Mag,” for her cruel experiment on her heroic and devoted Terry.—Practice of a New York Surgeon.
A Life Scene.
The Situation.—I was young, but, with a wife and child dependent upon my practice for food, raiment, and shelter, I was striving manfully; with my household gods and goods I had located here, in a small village, a year before. My beginning was encouraging, my success in practice more than flattering. But an immense opposition had met and nearly overthrown me, in the form of a man, a deacon of the —— church. He was one of those “rule or ruin” men whom you will find in every one-horse village. I did not at first know my man,—he did not know me,—or I should have avoided his ill will. I did not know his tenaciousness of titles—he was an esquire also—which was my first unpardonable offence. He swore—“as deacons do”—that I should not practise in that town. I swore, as doctors will, that “so long as I could obtain a potato and a clam a day I would remain while he was my opposer.” Clams could be dug at low water, within a few rods of my house; potatoes I grew on the quarter acre of ground given me as partial inducement to settle in that town. His two drunken sons were his emissaries of evil, set on for my overthrow, in addition to the father’s voice and known opposition, which few dared to meet. My practice dwindled. A few Nicodemuses came by night, but my darling wife trembled for my very life when I had a night call. My provision was often short, my poor horse was mere skin and bones, standing, day after day, gnawing his empty manger.
“O, is there a God in Israel?” I cried, in my anguish, more than once.
Yes, the reply came to my prayers; there is a God of recompense.
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The Betrayed.—My patient was a young girl, over whose golden head but seventeen summers had flown, on rosy wings. Her form was sylph-like, and face as beautiful as the opening flower in the golden sunshine of early day. She was an attendant at his church, a member of his Sabbath school class, and a singer in the choir....
