The whole cabin was hung
about with bunches of herbs, some dry and withered, others fresh and
green, giving evidence that they had been only newly gathered. A number
of bottles of all descriptions stood on wooden shelves, but without
labels, for the old sinner's long practice and great practical memory
enabled him to know the contents of every bottle with as much accuracy
as if they had been labelled in capitals.
"How the devil can you live and sleep in such a suffocating compound of
vile smells as this?" asked Woodward.
The old man glanced at him keenly, and replied,--
"Practice makes masther, sir--I'm used to them; I feel no smell but
a good smell; and I sleep sound enough, barrin' when I wake o' one
purpose, to think of and repent o' my sins, and of the ungrateful world
that is about me; people that don't thank me for doin' them good--God
forgive them! _amin acheernah!_"
"Why, now," replied Woodward, "if I had a friend of mine that was
unwell--observe me, a friend of mine--that stood between me and my
own interests, and that I was kind and charitable enough to forget any
ill-will against him, and wished to recover him from his illness through
the means of your skill and herbs, could you not assist me in such a
good and Christian work?"
The old fellow gave him a shrewd look and piercing glance, but
immediately replied--
"Why, to be sure, I could; what else is the business of my whole life
but to cure my fellow-cratures of their complaints?"
"Yes; I believe you are very fortunate in that way; however, for the
present, I don't require your aid, but it is very likely I shall soon.
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