Should you ever go to Boston, and pass along a certain street called Court Street, almost to its western extremity, you may probably see at your left hand, in large letters of various fantastical shapes, the words which I have placed at the head of this chapter; viz., “MRS. KIDDER’S CORDIAL.” Sometimes, I believe, it is called her cholera cordial; but it is sufficiently well known, as I suppose, by the former name.

But how is it known? Not merely by the sign I have mentioned, fastened up at the door of that aforesaid shop in Court Street, but by a host of advertisements in the public papers; and in other cities as well as Boston. You may find them in almost every public house, post-office, railroad depot, and grocery in New England; or, as I might perhaps say, in the whole Union.

I once had a child severely sick, at a season of the year when not only the Asiatic cholera prevailed, but also the cholera morbus. She was teething at the time, which was doubtless one cause of her illness, to which however, as I suppose, other causes may have been added. In any event, she was in a very bad condition, and required the wisest and most careful medical attention. There was also a young woman in the house who was ill in the same way, but not so ill as the child.

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.”

Here I smiled. “Well,” said he, “you may continue to smile; but you will mourn in the end. I have used Mrs. Kidder’s cordial in my family a good deal, and I assure you it is no humbug. It is all it promises. Now just go with me, for once, and get a bottle of it. Depend upon it, you will never regret it.”

Although my good friend had not succeeded in changing my views by his many affirmations, nor by his strong appeal to his experience of the good effects of the cordial in his own family (for I well knew he had lost almost all his children), I consented to go with him to the shop, partly to get rid of him. When we arrived I bought a bottle of the cordial, I believe for fifty cents, put it in my pocket, and carried it home with me.

When I reached home I put away the bottle, on a shelf in our family closet which was quite unoccupied, and inquired about the patients. The little girl was rather better, it was thought, but Miss L. was still weak and low. I told them about the adventure with the bookseller, but omitted to state that I had purchased the cordial.

In a very few days, by dint of good care and attention, and the blessing of a kind Providence, the sick were both of them much better, and I could leave them for a whole day at a time. My business in town demanded my presence, and I repaired thither again. And who should I meet, on getting out of the omnibus, but my old friend, who had reasoned with me so patiently and perseveringly, in defence of Mrs. Kidder’s cordial?

He inquired, almost immediately, about my family; to which I joyfully replied, “Better, all better. They were better in less than two days after I last saw you; yes, they were a little better that very evening.”

“I told you it would be so,” said he. “I never knew the cordial to fail when taken in season. I have lost several children, it is true; but they did not take it soon enough. I am profoundly glad you were in season. Does it not operate like a charm?”

“Exactly so,” said I, “if it operates at all; exactly like a charm, or like magic. Shall I tell you the whole story?”

“By all means,” he replied; “let us have the whole of it; keep nothing back.”

“Well, then, I went home, and placed the bottle of cordial on a high and obscure shelf, where nobody would be likely to see it, and proceeded with our sick folks just as before. The bottle of cordial remained unknown, except to myself, and untouched, and is probably untouched to the present hour. So you see do you not? how like a charm it operates.”

“Just like you, doctor. Well, as long as they recovered I do not care. But I shall always have full faith in the medicine. I know what I know; and if all the world were of your opinion I could not resist a full belief in the efficacy of Mrs. Kidder’s Cholera Cordial.”

My friend was not offended with me, for he was, in the main, a sensible, rational man. He pitied me; but, I believe from that time forth, gave up all hopes of my conversion. I come to this conclusion because he has never uttered a syllable on the subject, in my hearing, from that day to this hour, though I have met with him probably fifty times.

There can be no doubt that were we to place full faith in the recuperative efforts of nature, three-fourths of our medicine perhaps I may just as well say nine-tenths would be quite as useful were it disposed of in the way I disposed of Mrs. Kidder’s cordial, as when swallowed. Nay, it is possible it might be much more useful. If a sick person can recover without it just as well as with it, he certainly will get well more easily, even if it should not be more quickly, than if he had a load of foreign substance at his stomach to be disposed of. In other words, to get well in spite of medicine seems to me much less agreeable, after all that is said in its favor, than to get well in Nature’s own way.