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." "Not exactly that," I replied. "I can think of a great number of cases in which I would give medicine. For example: suppose one of my children had by the merest accident taken a dose of poison, which, if retained, must inevitably destroy it, I would much sooner give that child an active emetic--which, of course, is medicine--than stand still and see it die." "Very well," said he, "your child and Miss L., are, in one point of view, poisoned. They will probably die, if you stand still and do nothing; at least I have not a doubt that the little girl will. Now take my advice, and do something before it is too late. Give up all your theories and fine-spun reasonings, and do as others do, and save your child." As I had but little time for conversation with him, even on a highly important and deeply interesting subject, above all to point out the difference between the two cases he mentioned. I was now about ready to say "Good-morning," and leave him. "Stop a moment," said he, "and go with me to the second shop beyond that corner, and get a bottle of Mrs. Kidder's cordial for your sick folks."