In all the relations of life, Quimby seems to have been loyal and upright. Outside of his theory he lived only for his family and was the constant playmate of his children. His only interest in his patients was to make them well. He treated all who came, whether they could pay or not. For several years Quimby kept no accounts and made no definite charges. The patients, when they saw fit, sent him such remuneration as they wished. Inevitably, he drew his followers largely from the poor and the desperately ill. "People," he would say, "send for me and the undertaker at the same time; and the one who gets there first gets the case."
Quimby was thoroughly convinced that he had solved the riddle of life, and that ultimately the whole world would accept his ideas. His subject possessed him. He wearied his family almost to desperation with it, and wore out all his friends. He discussed it at length with any one who would listen. To put it in writing, to teach it, to transmit it to posterity,—that was his consuming idea. His only fear was lest he should die before the "Truth" had made a lasting impress. He wrote about it in the newspapers,—not, however, as extensively as he desired, for the editors seldom printed his articles, regarding them as the veriest rubbish. He selected, here and there, especially appreciative and intelligent patients, discussed his doctrine with them exhaustively, and enjoined them to teach unbelievers. His following was not wholly among the ignorant and humble. Edwin Reed, ex-mayor of Bath, Me., declares that Quimby cured him of total blindness. He visited him as a young graduate of Bowdoin, had his sight completely restored, spent several months studying the theory, and left with the
