It was true, Magnus’ receipt-book, if he owned one, was an unwritten volume. His practice was mostly among poor people, who had no dollars to spare.
Well, then, what did he do it for? What good did it do him? There he was, rapped up out of his warm bed in the middle of the winter’s night, in the midst of a snowstorm, to ride five or six miles to some old woman in a cramp colic, or some child with the croup! What good did it do? And this was not the case once or twice, but five or six times in a month. And what good did it do him?
Lives were saved!
Yes, but what did he get for his trouble? Thanks, maybe. Pooh! he knew very well that half the time he got nothing but ingratitude and coarse abuse. He had better remember that Irishwoman, with an inflammatory fever, who took her powders every hour in a gill of whisky, and, being near death, swore the d—— doctor’s stuff had murdered her. He had better remember how the other woman cursed him for cutting off her husband’s mortified leg to the saving of his life. Pooh! Let him give up the dirty profession. He did not adopt him, did not intend to give him a fortune for the sole purpose of enabling him to be a poor doctor without even parish pay!
Sometimes Magnus would answer to this effect:
“Nonsense, my good uncle! If I can do any good in my day and generation, let me do it. Though I do sometimes get abuse from some poor, ignorant man, or, more frequently, a blowing up from some poor, nervous, overtasked woman, who, by the way, would defend me, to the death, the very next hour, if anyone else attacked me—why should I care? I am quite as well liked as I deserve to be. Most people are, in fact. Some day the people around here will send me to Congress in my own despite, I am so popular.”
“Send you to Congress! I expected that—I was only waiting for that. It only wanted that to complete my despair and your ruin.”
“Dear uncle, be easy—I shan’t go,” Magnus would reply, laughing.
Yes, Dr. Magnus Hardcastle was very popular, and could have carried as many votes as any man in the county. He was the constant companion of General Garnet, by what sort of attraction and association the reader cannot fail to know. Never was such a zealous partisan as Magnus! Never was such a stump orator,—earnest, eloquent, impassioned, large-souled, great-hearted, full of human sympathies,—he could sway a crowd to and fro in a manner that might have been amusing, if it had not been sublime in its exhibition of power. It was his personal appearance, as well as his temperament, that was the cause of much of this power over others.
But it is time to give you some idea of Magnus Hardcastle at twenty-three. He was a fine illustration of the beauty of the vital system. He had the tall, athletic form that distinguishes the men of the Western Shore; a face rather square, by reason of the massive forehead and massive jaws, both indicating intellect and strength; but it was in the fullness of the beautifully rounded chin and cheeks, in the fullness of the large, but beautifully curved lips, that the fine, genial serenity, and joyous temperament was revealed; the line of the nose and forehead was nearly straight, and the eyes were clear blue, the complexion was clear and ruddy; and the face was surrounded by the darkest chestnut hair, and whiskers that met beneath the chin. The prevailing expression of this fine countenance was confidence and cheerfulness.