CHAPTER LX.
MRS. KIDDER'S CORDIAL.
Should you ever go to Boston, and pass along a certain street called Court Street, almost to its western extremity, you may probably see at your left hand, in large letters of various fantastical shapes, the words which I have placed at the head of this chapter; viz., "Mrs. Kidder's Cordial." Sometimes, I believe, it is called her cholera cordial; but it is sufficiently well known, as I suppose, by the former name.
But how is it known? Not merely by the sign I have mentioned, fastened up at the door of that aforesaid shop in Court Street, but by a host of advertisements in the public papers; and in other cities as well as Boston. You may find them in almost every public house, post-office, railroad depot, and grocery in New England; or, as I might perhaps say, in the whole Union.
I once had a child severely sick, at a season of the year when not only the Asiatic cholera prevailed, but also the cholera morbus. She was teething at the time, which was doubtless one cause of her illness,—to which however, as I suppose, other causes may have been added. In any event, she was in a very bad condition, and required the wisest and most careful medical attention. There was also a young woman in the house who was ill in the same way, but not so ill as the child.
At that time my residence was very near the metropolis, though, as I have already told you, Mrs. Kidder's cordial could be had almost everywhere. Having occasion to go to town, I fell in with an old friend who kindly inquired after the health of my family. When I had told him, he boldly and with true Yankee impertinence, asked what I had done for my family patients; to which I replied, with a frankness and simplicity which was fully equal to his boldness, "Nothing, as yet." "Do you mean to do nothing?" said he, with some surprise. I told him that I did not know what I might do in future, but that I saw no necessity of using any active medication at present. "Are you not aware," I added, "that physicians seldom take their own medicines or give them to their families?"
"I know very well," said he, "that physicians theorize a good deal about these matters; but after all, experience is the best school-master. Should you lose that little girl of yours, simply because you are anxious to carry out a theory, will you not be likely to regret it? As yet you have lost no children, and therefore, though much older than myself, you have not had all the experience which has fallen to my lot; and experience is the best school-master."
"True," I answered, "I am not too old to learn from that experience, which, in a certain sense, is the basis of all just knowledge, especially in medicine. What you call my theory, or at least all the theory I have, is grounded on this same experience; not, indeed, that of one man in one neighborhood, nor, indeed, in one nation. I have looked the world over."
"And you have come to the very wise conclusion, it would seem," said he, "that medicine never does any good, and that you will never give it more, except to those who are determined to have it, or will not fasten their faith on any thing else."