"Lawyers and doctors at your service.
We are better off
Without them.
True, you are,--but still
You follow on their heels, and fawn,
And flatter in their faces. If you
Would leave your brawls and fights which
Call for physic, very soon you'd be
Beyond their greedy clutches."
OLD PLAY.
Reader, do you wonder where's the doctor whose saddle-bags may be
supposed to contain the divers specifics for the "ills" which the "flesh"
of Wimbledon is liable to become heir to? He doth exist, and, when
occasion calls, we'll trot him forth.
And do you say this same Wimbledon has never a lawyer within its
precincts,--and whoever heard of a village of several hundred inhabitants
without at least half-a-dozen of these learned disciples of Blackstone to
settle its wrongs and right its abuses?
Permit us to inform you, friend, that we consider lawyers dangerous
animals; and the less men and women have to do with them, the better!
Nevertheless, there is one o' the craft in Wimbledon; and, if you had not
been blind as a bat, you would have discovered, ere this, the sign of
"Peter Paul Pimble, Esq., Attorney-at-Law," hung over the door of a
small, black building in Mudget square. True, Mr. Pimble don't practise
his profession much, for a very good reason; nobody is in want of his
services; and that's the case with two thirds of the lawyers in
Christendom.
Mrs. Pimble has converted her husband's office into a committee-room, and
receptacle for hoards of pamphlets and papers, containing the proceedings
of divers conventions held for the advancement of the cause of "Woman's
Rights, and promulgation of Universal Freedom and Philanthropy."
Mrs. Pimble, the ardent reformist, is at present detained from her labors
by the illness of her eldest son, Garrison. She has sent for the young
female physician, Dr. Sarah Simcoe; but the word is, "pressing business
detains that medical functionary at home,"--so, in direct violation of
her established principles, she has been compelled to send for old Dr.
Potipher, who considers himself, par excellence, the Esculapius of
Wimbledon.
But Peggy Nonce comes blowing back from her hasty errand, and says the
doctor is down to Mr. Moses Simcoe's. Mrs. Pimble wonders what should
take a vile male practitioner to the house of an accomplished
lady-physician. Peggy looks wise, as much as to say she could explain the
mystery if she chose. But no one asks her to speak, so she goes into the
kitchen, where Mr. Pimble sits in his dressing-gown and sheepskin
slippers, shivering over an expiring fire. He lifts his head, as the
bustling housekeeper begins to rattle the covers of the stove for the
purpose of putting in some more wood, and asks feebly if "Dr. Potipher
has arrived."
"No," answers Peggy. "He is down to Mr. Simcoe's."
"Who is sick there?" inquires Mr. Pimble.
"His wife."
"Why, she is a doctor herself! Can't she cure her own ailments?" says Mr.
Pimble.
"Not always, I reckon," is Peggy's reply, while she is evidently vastly
amused by something she does not choose to communicate at present.
Beside the bed of her sick boy stood Mrs. Pimble. She laid her hand on
his forehead. It burned with fever, and his pulse was quick and hard. She
was not much skilled in the "art medical," but she resolved to do
_something_ for her child, and forthwith proceeded to the kitchen and
compounded a dish of catnip leaves and ginger. It exhaled a savory
smell, and she felt quite confident it would cool off Garrison's fever.
Placing a large bowl of the liquid by his bed-side, she bade him drink
freely of it through the evening, while she was gone to the Reform Club,
and when she came home she would call at Sister Simcoe's and obtain a
prescription for him. The sick lad promised to do as she requested. His
fever inclined him to drink incessantly, and ere his mother was ten
yards from the house, he had guzzled the whole brimming bowlful. And
still he called for drink, drink; which his insensate father carried to
him in copious quantities as often as he desired it.
Mrs. Pimble proceeded on her way to the club room. For some reason there
was but a thin attendance. None of the prominent members were present,
and the little company decided to adjourn. Mrs. Pimble hurried round to
Mrs. Simcoe's, to learn the cause of her absence and get the prescription
for Garrison. The lady-doctor had been lecturing for several months in
different towns of the county, and was but recently returned.
Mrs. Pimble entered without knocking, as was her wont, and walked into
the young doctor's office, where she beheld, not the fair, feminine face
of the rightful proprietor, but the ugly, rhubarb-colored visage of the
village apothecary, Dr. Potipher, ensconced in the high-backed cushioned
chair, fast asleep.
She turned back and opened the sitting-room door, and there stood Mr.
Simcoe before a bed, holding a tea-tray, containing several vials and
glasses. Mrs. Pimble started on seeing the night-capped head of Mrs.
Simcoe raised feebly from the pillow, and darting forward, exclaimed,
"Mercy, Sister Simcoe! what has befallen you?"
A smothered wail from beneath the bed-clothes now met her ear, and,
turning down the blankets, she discovered two red-faced, bald-headed
babies, wrapped in swaddling-clothes. She started back aghast.
"What are those things--what are those things?" she demanded,
hysterically, pointing to the infant strangers.
"Simcoe's children!" groaned the pale lady-doctor, turning uneasily away
from the little things that lay squirming and making such grimaces, as
only very young babies _can_ make, in the face of Mrs. Pimble. The
alleged father stood there, chuckling over the smartness of his progeny.
Mrs. Pimble darted one withering glance upon him, and walked away
without another word. She roused old Dr. Potipher, and took him home
with her. Well she did so, for Garrison was much worse than when she
left him, and the doctor pronounced it a case of brain fever, which
would require the nicest care and nursing.
Thus a wet blanket was most audaciously thrown upon the Woman's Rights'
Reform, which was fain to arrest its progress in Wimbledon for a while.
We shall see how long.