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Phineas Parkhurst Quimby: His Complete Writings and Beyond

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Dr. P. P. Quimby.


“One little flower I bring.”

It is many years since the brave spirit of Dr. P. P. Quimby passed on to a higher life. Mother earth is resting upon his earthly form. The beautiful summer has come and gone again. The pure mantle of snow has rested many winters over his grave. But he is not forgotten. Nor will he be. In many homes to—day his name is spoken with love and gratitude, and the story of his wonderful power to relieve suffering is often repeated. This is true not only of his own State, but of many distant ones, of homes where he alleviated suffering, restored strength and life to earth’s children.

In those early days, this power of mind over disease, of giving strength and vitality with the magnetic pass of the hand, was not as well understood as at this later day. Had it been Dr. P. P. Quimby would have had more freedom in the exercise of this almost God—given gift. But he could not have been more faithful to the trust. He did not complain. Strong in his own power of victory over disease he worked on. When many men would have faltered, he advanced his progressive thoughts and gave his hand to suffering humanity. And many time he gave “Without money and without price.”

As he grew older, time brought to him greater development of this power to conquer pain. The good that he accomplished, the suffering that he averted, the crippled forms that were restored under his kind, magnetic hand cannot be told in this simple tribute to his pleasant memory. Whenever I hear the name of P. P. Quimby spoken, it brings a throb of pleasure to my heart. In a moment his face rises before me. I recall the earlier days, when Belfast was a village (and his practice had but begun) before the city charter had been seen; before the railroad had been thought of; before the first sweet chimes of the Universalist church bell had been heard by the good people of the pretty town, and when Our George was a very small boy in short jackets. In his youthful, vigorous days, when the color was fresh upon his cheek, and his dark wonderful eyes were at their brightest; coming and going, with a quick springing step, a joke upon his lips, with a quick ear to hear the suffering cry, and a hand ever extended to give relief—I remember Dr. P. P. Quimby. And could this man die? The body is not the man. Could that brave spirit die? Could that power, that will, be consigned to mother earth? In that world of spirit, so little known, so little understood, of which we dream in our best hours, to which we turn in anguish when our loved ones are taken, who can tell of the unfoldment of this brave spirit, of the heights that he may have reached. He seemed inspired on earth. He loved to give strength to the weak and afflicted. Who can tell, as the weak and weary ones of earth shall flutter out on the unknown sea, but that he may be one of His loving messengers sent to sustain and strengthen?

Is it not a pleasant thought?


April 25, 1887.

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