The author who wrote the
descriptions of the diseases was one of the most convincing writers
that ever lived anywhere. As a realist he had no superiors among
those using our language as a vehicle for the expression of thought.
He was a wonder. If a person wasn't particular about what ailed
him he could read any page at random and have one specific disease.
Or he could read the whole book through and have them all, in
their most advanced stages. Then the only thing that could save
him was a large dollar bottle.
Again, in attacks of the breakbone ague or malaria it was customary
to call in a local practitioner, generally an elderly lady of the
neighborhood who had none of these latter-day prejudices regarding
the use of tobacco by the gentler sex. One whom I distantly recall,
among childhood's happy memories, carried this liberal-mindedness
to a point where she not only dipped snuff and smoked a cob pipe,
but sometimes chewed a little natural leaf. This lady, on being
called in, would brew up a large caldron of medicinal roots and
barks and sprouts and things; and then she would deluge the interior
of the sufferer with a large gourdful of this pleasing mixture at
regular intervals.
Pages:
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63