He preached at first, then became a judge, and he “doctored.”
They were queer people who doctored then, with wig and gig. Brother Jonathan doctored the poor. He doctored out of his goodly instincts more than from a medical code, though he could administer prescriptions from Latin that it was deemed presumptuous for the patient to inquire about. Now people know what medicine they take, but it was deemed audacious then to ask any questions about Latin prescriptions, or to seek to penetrate such an awful mystery as was contained in the “Ferrocesquicianurit of the Cynide of Potassium,” or to find out that a ranunculus bulbosus was only a buttercup.
Among the good old tavern tales of such old-time doctors was one of a notional old woman, who used to send for the doctor as often as she saw any one passing who was going the doctor’s way. Once when there was coming on one of these awful March snow-storms that buried up houses, she saw a teamster hurrying against the pitiless snow toward the town where the doctor’s office was.
“Hay, hay!” said she to the half-blinded man. “Whoa, stop! Send the doctor to me—it is going to be a desperate case.”
The doctor came to visit his patient, and found her getting a bountiful meal.
“The dragon!” said he. “Hobgoblins and thunder, what did you make me come out here for in all this dreadful storm?”
“Oh, pardon, doctor,” said she, “it was such a good chance to send.”
In ill temper, the country doctor faced the storm again.
There was both an academy and an Indian school in the town, and all the children loved Brother Jonathan.