That Favorite Remedy by Julia M. Wright

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Jul 31, 1879

That Favorite Remedy.

By Julia M. Wright

PEOPLE laughed at Dr. Wilcox's "favorite remedy" in the prostration of typhoid fever; nothing else was in it than whisky. An old-fashioned doctor they called him—a kindly, benevolent, whimsical old man, who received much reverence in the wide circuit of his country practice. "He cured the majority of his patients," folks said, "and so they let him take his way." Now, one of his ways was ordering "old apple whisky" for his patients exhausted by fever. But he had luck with his fever patients. He cured Tom Turner when every one said there was "no hope." Yes, and Tom died a drunkard within two years. "And Raphe More?" True, Raphe has been a tippler ever since; a lost man they call him. "And little Bob Glen?" Poor Bobbie, was brought back from the gates of death, indeed. They began on half a gill of the whisky "that had stood in the cellar twenty years, the real stuff of his grandfather's make," and they went on until Bobbie used a pint a day. He got over the fever. "Most a pity," said the neighbors, for the disease hurt his brain somehow, and Bobbie had been only half-witted ever since.

The doctor had firm faith in his remedy, until Bella Clarke gave him the light on it that no one else ventured to give.

Bella and Joe were orphan twins, and Dr. W. doted on them from the day they came to live next door to him with their uncle. Joe fell ill with typhoid fever; and at the stage of prostration, "Give him a tablespoonful of whisky and a teaspoonful of cream," began the doctor.

Said Bella, "I'll give him the cream, but not the whisky. Suppose he gets well to be a drunkard?"

"And suppose he don't get well to be a drunkard?" said the doctor, testily.

"Will it not be better for him to die a good boy that every one loves than to be a drunkard? Had I not rather sit by his grave than wait at the tavern doors to lead him home?" sobbed Bella.

"Well," said the doctor, winking at her aunt, "you need not give him any whisky."

"And nobody shall," cried Bella, "I will watch him night and day. No one shall make him break his promise to our dying mother. Joe is more to me than any one, and now that he does not know what he is doing, I shall see to him."

"No, doctor, I cannot give him whisky, it is true," said her aunt. "I remember about the mother's dying words, and I dare not force whisky on Joe against Bella's will."

She left the room, and Bella turned to the doctor. "Dear, kind doctor," she said, "what would life be to us if Joe loved drink? You remember my Uncle Tim, and—and—my—fa—" here she burst into sobs. "I cannot have Joe saved at such a price; he would not wish it himself. Do, doctor, agree to try cream, and beef tea, and good nursing—anything but whisky. I'll watch him every minute; and I know we can save him without whisky." And then, unconscious of the shock and blow to the old doctor, Bella called up the cases of Tom Turner, and Raphe, and Robin, and her Uncle Tim, and a score of others, thinking only to plead her brother's cause, but unrolling before the old man's eyes a fearful gulf into which his kindly hands had pushed many a poor soul by his "favorite remedy." He rose while she was speaking and hurried away.

Next day he was back.

"O, doctor!" cried Bella, running to meet him, "Joe is improving—on beef tea. I made it myself."

The old man took her hand and drew her to him. "Child," he said, "I have but few years left to repair a life-long error. Those were hard lines you read me yesterday, but hereafter no man shall date his ruin from my prescriptions. I have done with what they call my 'remedy.'"—Julia M. Wright, in Youth's Temperance Banner.