These gentlemen sometimes limit their practice to particular diseases, cancers, fistulas, fevers, &c. A memorial was presented, some few years since, to the legislature of Alabama, for the establishment of a medical college, to be devoted, exclusively, to vegetable practice. A shrewd, old member of the assembly rose, and spoke, much after this fashion--I shall support this measure, Mr. Speaker, on one condition, that a neighbor of mine shall be appointed president of this college. It is proper, therefore, that you should know how far he is qualified. He was a travelling merchant; dealt chiefly in apple-trade and other notions, and failed. He had once taken an old book, on fevers, in exchange for essences. This he got by heart. Fevers are common with us. He was a man of some tact; and, a week after he failed, he put up his sign, "BELA BODKIN, FEVER DOCTOR--ROOTS AND HERBS--F. R. S.--L. L. D.--M. D. No charge to the poor or the reverend clergy."--When asked, what he meant by adding those capital letters to his name, he said the alphabet was common property; that F. R. S. stood for Feverfew, Ragwort, and Slippery Elm--L. L. D. for Liverwort, Lichens, and Dill--and M. D. for Milk Diet. The thing took--his garret was crowded, from morning till night, and the regular doctor was driven out of that town. Those, who got well, proclaimed Dr. Bodkin's praises--those, who died, were a very silent majority. Everybody declared, of the dead, 'twas a pity they had applied too late. Bodkin was once called to a farmer's wife. He entered the house, with his book under his arm, saying FEVER! with a loud voice, as he crossed the threshhold. This evidence of his skill was astonishing. Without more than a glance at the patient, he asked the farmer, if he had a sorrel sheep; and, being told, that he had never heard of such a thing, he inquired, if he had a sorrel horse. The farmer replied, that he had, and a very valuable one. Dr. Bodkin assured him the horse must be killed immediately, and a broth made of the _in'ards_ for the sick wife. The farmer hesitated; the wife groaned; the doctor opened the book, and showed his authority--there it was--readable enough--"_sheep sorrel, horse sorrel, good in fevers_." The farmer smiled--the doctor departed in anger, saying, as he went, "you may decide which you will sacrifice, your wife or your nag." The woman died, and, shortly after, the horse. The neighbors considered the farmer a hard-hearted man--the wife a victim to the husband's selfishness--the sudden death of the horse a particular providence--and Dr. Bodkin the most skilful of physicians. No. CX.