University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
CHARLOTTE'S RETURN.

On the very day she had appointed before leaving
home, Charlotte, by dint of arranging for her
father, giving him now a hint and now an impulse,
returned there. Susan had opened, swept, and

garnished the house with plenty of laurels and
roses, and Mrs. Aikin and some other kind matrons
had sent in a store of provisions, so that Susan
spread her tea-table with the abundance and variety
that characterize the evening meal in New-England.

Fresh biscuit and cookies, cherry-pie, smoked
beef, stewed currants, peppergrass, cheese, and
radishes, were on the table—the tea-kettle hissing
a welcome over the fire, and Susan and Harry
standing at the door and gazing at a turn in the
road, where, between two branching elms that imbowered
it, appeared Uncle Phil's wagon, and Charlotte
was soon folded in the arms of her loving sister,
and receiving a welcome nowise less joyful
from Harry.

“I declare,” said Uncle Phil, after the first salutations
were passed, surveying the table with
ineffable satisfaction, “you've set out what I call
a tea, Susy. You beat 'em all in York—they live
dreadful poor down there. To be sure, your Aunt
Betsey lives in a brick house, and has a sight of
furniture, and a gimcrack of a timepiece on her
mantelpiece (it don't go half so true as our old
wooden one), and high plated candlesticks, and
such knick-knacks; yet she has all her bread to
buy by the loaf, and the milk is sky-blue; as to
cream, I don't believe they ever heard on't. Cakes
and pies are scarce, I tell you. I don't believe
peppergrass has come there yet, for I never saw a
spear of it on the table, nor a speck of cheese.
But the worst of all is the water. Poor Jock
would have choked before he would have drank
a drop of it; and they live in such a dust and

hurra, I tho't when we drove in it was gineral
training; but they carried on so every day;—and
then there is such a stifled-up feeling—I did pity
'em.”

Persons capable of more accurate comparison
than Uncle Phil, may well pity those who, when
summer is in its beauty, are shut up within the
walls of a city, deprived of the greatest of all luxuries,
which even the poorest country people enjoy—sweet
air, ample space, pure water, and
quiet only broken by pleasant sounds.

And often, too, have we felt a pity for the citizen
similar to Uncle Phil's, when we have compared
the tea-table of those we call poor in the
country with the uninviting evening meal of the
affluent in town. “Ah, father,” replied Susan,
“you must remember we don't set out such a table
very often here. I am sure I never could if we
had not such kind neighbours; but, when they
are kind, it don't seem to me to make much difference
whether you are rich or poor.”

Susan's simple remark had an important bearing
on that great subject of inequality of condition,
which puzzles the philosopher, and sometimes disturbs
the Christian. But did not our happy little
friend suggest a solution to the riddle? Has not
Providence made this inequality the necessary
result of the human condition, and is not the true
agrarian principle to be found in the voluntary
exercise of those virtues that produce an interchange
of benevolent offices? If there were a perfect
community of goods, where would be the opportunity
for the exercise of the virtues, of justice,
and mercy, humility, fidelity, and gratitude? If

the rights of the poor of all classes were universally
acknowledged, if intellectual and moral education
were what they should be, the deaf would
hear, and the blind would see; and the rich man
would no longer look with fear upon the poor man,
nor the poor man with envy on the rich. This
true millennium is on its way. “Blessed are those
who wait!”

Our friends were soon seated at their tempting
tea-table, where Susan tried to busy herself with
her duties, but her eyes continually rested on her
sister's pale face, and it was all she could do to
repress her tears and speak cheerfully when she
saw plain indications that Charlotte had not reaped
the advantage from her journey that they had too
sanguinely expected. She perceived that Charlotte,
instead of tasting the delicacies prepared for
her, declined them all, even the warm biscuit and
cherry-pie, and the radishes too, which she particularly
liked, and made her meal of a cracker she
took from her bag, and a glass of water. Susan
dared not trust her voice to ask questions; Charlotte
made no explanations; Harry's eyes followed
Susan's, but he was silent; and Uncle Phil, too
happy at getting home to observe the feelings of
the parties, merely murmured once when Charlotte
refused the cake, “Them New-York doctors are
dum notional!”

When the tea was over, Susan could bear it no
longer; and the tears streaming from her eyes, she
said, “Oh, Lottie, 'tis a comfort to get you home,
though you an't cured.” The ice was now broken
and Charlotte, much refreshed by her simple meal
proceeded to relate the circumstances of her journey;

but, as her narrative was prolonged by digressions,
and broken by the comments of her
eager listeners, we shall give its purport briefly.

The pleasure of the journey, and the hope of a
cure from the far-famed New-York doctor, wrought
wonders on Charlotte's feeble frame; and when
she arrived at her aunt's, she felt more strength
and ease than she had experienced for years; and,
but for certain sharp twinges, she said she should
have saved Harry's money and not consulted the
doctor. The doctor, however, was summoned, and
seemed at once inspired with an interest for his
humble patient that was hardly to be expected from
a man at the head of his profession, and whose
attendance was sought at every moment by the
first in the land. But Dr. — was no common
man, and was a most rare physician. He studied
the mind as well as the body; he endeavoured to
comprehend their delicate relations and bearings
upon each other, and in his profession he ministered
to both. He was a religious man in principle,
and earnestly so in feeling; and, by getting
into the hearts of his patients—into the inner temple,
by addressing them as religious beings, by
rousing their faith and fortitude, or their submission
and patience, “he was sure,” as Charlotte
said, to find a medicine that would do them good,
if all drugs failed; and, if the case was curable,
his prescriptions operated like the old woman's
herb, that “with a blessing always cured.”

After an examination, he ascertained Charlotte's
malady to a certainty, and that it was incurable;
but he did not shock her by at once telling her
this. He visited her repeatedly, talked patiently

over that subject so interesting to all valetudinarians,
the long history of her sickness. Thus, by
degrees, he learned what he was studying—the
constitution of her mind. He found she was judicious,
rational, self-denying, steadfast, humble, and
patient; and he then proceeded to give his advice,
not with the promise of curing her, but with the
well-grounded expectation of protracting her life,
and rendering it comparatively comfortable to herself
and useful to others. After having gradually
prepared her for his opinion, he told it, and found, as
he expected, that her mind was soon made up to the
defeat of her hopes, and to the certainty of enduring
through life a very painful disease; and not
merely because it was an inevitable calamity, for
when she could trust her voice to speak, she said,

“I can yet say, sir, God's will be done! but I
am so sorry for Susy's and Harry's disappointment!”

“I am very sorry too,” said the kind doctor,
wiping his eyes; “but it is better for them, as
well as for you, that you should all know the real
state of the case.”

“Oh, yes, sir, far better; for I know it is much
easier to endure when we are certain there is no
help for us.”

“Your case is not so bad as that, my child; I
said there was no cure; there is help, if you will
strictly adhere to the directions I give you; but it
will be time enough for that to-morrow. I now
leave you to rest, and to seek help and consolation
where, I am sure, from your prompt submission,
you are in the habit of going for it.”

“I am, sir, and it never fails me.”

“And it never will, my child. Happy is it for

doctors and patients, when they are both in habits
of dependance on the Great Physician.”

The next day Charlotte met the doctor with a
peaceful smile on her face. The flush of hope
had faded from her cheek, but the sweet light of
resignation was there.

“You have been to the unfailing source of
strength and peace, my child,” said the doctor,
“and now sit down, and we will talk over what is
best for the future. You have been, as you have
told me, all your life in the habit of taking medicines
from various doctors—now a sirup is recommended,
now a mixture; now these pills, and
now those; now some new foreign medicine, and
now an Indian doctor's nostrums; and, worse than
all, every now and then a course of medicine.
Henceforth take no more of it, of any sort; it has
no more tendency to remove your disease than it
would have to restore your leg if it had been sawn
off and thrown away. Medicines, drugs, my child,
are all poisons. We are obliged to give them to
arrest the progress of acute diseases; but, in chronic
diseases, instead of curing, they obstruct and
clog the efforts of nature, and confound her operations.
They debilitate the stomach, and produce a
thousand of what you call `bad feelings,' evils often
worse than the malady they are employed to cure.
I'll tell you a secret, my child; the older we doctors
grow, the less medicine we give; and, though the
world is slow to get wisdom, drugs are much less
in fashion than when I was a young man. Don't
be persuaded to try this and try that; each dose
may do you harm, and cannot possibly do you any
good. Poor people do not know what an advantage

they have over the rich, in not being able to call
the doctor for every finger-ache, or to keep a well-furnished
medicine-chest in their houses. I am no
wizard, but I can usually tell by the looks of the
family whether there are plenty of labelled vials in
the cupboard. The poor have many facilities for
health over the rich; I speak of the comparatively
poor—thank God, there are few in our country that
would be called poor in other lands—few who cannot
obtain healthful food, and plenty of it. They
are not, like the rich, tempted to excess by various
and delicately-cooked dishes; but, then, from ignorance
or carelessness, they do not properly prepare
their food; you have heard the old proverb,
my child—its meaning is too true—`the Lord sends
meats, but the devil sends cooks.' The poor
man's flour is as wholesome as the rich man's, but
his wife makes her bread carelessly, and it is sour
or heavy, or eaten hot, and about as digestible as
brick-bats. A poor woman, for want of a little
forethought and arrangement, gets her work into a
snarl; meal-time is at hand—her husband coming
in from his work—children hungry—she makes a
little short-cake, or claps down before the fire in a
spider some half-risen dough—is it not so?”

“Dear me! yes, sir—but how should you know
it?”

“A physician sees every mode of life, and
learns much in his profession by observing them.
Such bread as I have described, I have seen accompanied
with cucumbers, Dutch cheese, fried
cakes, and messes of meat done up in grease.
Half the fine gentlemen and nervous ladies in our
city would have been thrown into fits or fevers

by one such meal. The poor are saved by the
invigorating effect of labour in the open air—when
they are saved—but sickness and death often ensue.

“Among all our benevolent societies, I wish there
was one for teaching the poor the arts of health—
to begin with cooking well plain food. Why, if
our poor knew how to manage their means of
health and comfort, they might live as if they
were in paradise. A sound mind in a sound body
will make almost a paradise even of this rough-going
world.”

“I should think so, sir,” said Charlotte, with a
sigh; “but,” she added, modestly, “I hope, doctor,
you do not think we live at home in the way
you have described?”

“Oh no, my child, certainly not, by no means.”

“Indeed, we do not, sir; though I was only
thirteen, and my little sister, our Susy, nine, when
mother died, she had taught us to make her good
bread. I mixed it, and Susy, a strong child, kneaded
it: we always calculate to have light bread and
good butter. We always have meat, for father
thinks he can't do without it three times a day.
Susy is a hearty eater, too—my appetite is poor,
but our neighbours are very considerate, and I'm
seldom without pie, or cake, or preserves, or something
relishing. You smile, sir—I don't wish to
have you think we live daintily—I don't know
how it is in cities, but country people are thoughtful
of one another, and any one out of health has
such things sent in.”

“Pies, cakes, and preserves?”

“Yes, sir; things that taste pleasant, and are
kind of nourishing.”

“Nourishing to the disease, my poor child, not
to the patient. Pies, cakes, and sweetmeats are
only fit for the healthy, and for those who can
labour, or exercise, a name that, as somebody says,
the rich give to their labour. No; if you mean to
enjoy all the comfort your case admits of, you
must discard these nice things.

“I can, sir, if it is duty.”

“I do not doubt, my child, that you both can and
will do whatever you believe to be duty, and I
must have great confidence in those whom I believe
able to subdue their appetities to perfect obedience
in these matters. You will make it a religious
duty—most persons are enslaved by their
appetites, because they do not bring their religion
to bear upon such a small matter as eating
or not eating a bit of pie. The light of the
sun is as essential to the hut as to the palace; so
religion is as necessary to help us through small
duties as great; it is easier to suffer martyrdom
with its help, than to make a temperate meal without
it. But there is no need of all this preaching
to you, my child; you, I am sure, will cheerfully
do whatever is necessary to preserve the faculties
of your mind and body.”

“I calculate to try to do what is about right,
sir.”

“And that is the best possible calculation, and
will lead to the very best result. There is nothing
for me to do but to tell you how, in my opinion,
you can best do your duty to your body—a poor
infirm casket it is, but it contains an immortal
treasure, and must therefore be taken good care
of.”

It is not necessary to give the doctor's directions,
in regard to Charlotte's food, in detail. Her
diet was to consist of plain food, plainly dressed;
and when he finished, Charlotte said, with a smile,

“As to eating, sir, I shall be as well off as if I
were the richest lady in the land, for I can easily
get the food you think convenient for me.”

“As well off, and far better, my dear child; I
have many rich patients to whom I make the same
prescription; but, surrounded as they are by tempting
luxuries, they are for ever transgressing and
suffering—they do not enough take to heart the
wise saying, that they that do the things that
please the Lord shall receive of the fruit of the
tree of immortality. But, Miss Charlotte, there are
other matters besides eating to which you must be
attentive; gentle and regular exercise you must
have—riding will not suit you.”

“That's a real mercy, sir; for, since father has
lost his horse, I have no way to ride.”

“You have a little house-keeping, what the
women call stirring about, to do—sweeping, washing
dishes, setting tables, and so on?”

“Yes, sir, but I have let our Susy do it; and,
when I was able, taken in sewing, because that
brought us in a little money.”

“You must not sit at your needle; none but the
strong can bear that. Your little hardy sister
must take that part.”

“Well, that is a comfort, as Susy would herself
say, for I want her to learn the tailoress' trade,
and Miss Sally Baker had agreed to teach her for
the rent of our back room.”

“By all means,” said the doctor, entering with

the most benevolent interest into Charlotte's plans,
“let Miss Sally have the back room; then Susy
will be handy to call upon to do the heavier work,
for you must not lift, or do any thing that requires
strength—but I have observed that you women-folk
can keep yourselves busy about what we
men can't describe, nor even comprehend. Your
housework is a source of contentment—a rich lady
of my acquaintance says she envies her servants
who have kitchen-work to go to in all their troubles.”

“I never thought of that, sir; but it does lighten
the heart to stir about, and it is a pleasure to make
the most of a little, and have things orderly and
comfortable.”

“Oh yes, my child; the world is full of these
small provisions for our happiness if we had but
eyes to see them and hearts to feel them. But
let me proceed to my prescriptions. You must
wear flannel drawers and a flannel waistcoat with
sleeves all the year round. This to an invalid is,
in our varying climate, essential, for in no other
way can the skin be kept of a warm and regular
temperature.[1] Can you procure the flannel, my
child?”

“I think I can, sir; Susy and I calculated to
get us new woollen gowns next winter, but I guess
we can make the old ones do.”

“That's right, my dear. If I could only persuade
those who can't afford to get every thing, to
dispense with new outside garments, and furnish
themselves with plenty of flannel, I would promise

to save them half their doctors' bills.” The doctor
then proceeded to a prescription which, at first,
seemed very extraordinary to Charlotte; but he
urged it so strenuously, and told her that he knew it
from experience to be of the first importance in preserving
the health of the healthy, and strengthening
the invalid, that she resolved, whatever trouble
it might cost her, to follow strictly his advice.
This advice was, that she should every day bathe
her whole person in cold water, and rub her skin
till it was dry and warm. He knew she had not
conveniences for bathing, but this might be effected
with a tub, or even a basin of water, and a sponge.
Charlotte afterward, and after long experience,
acknowledged that this simple prescription had
done her more good than all the medicine she had
ever taken. Finally, the doctor charged her not
to wear at night the garments she wore in the
day; not to make up her bed till it was thoroughly
aired; not to be afraid of fresh air; to let plenty
of it into the house; and especially, if at any time
she was so much indisposed as to be confined to
her bed, to have the air of her room constantly
changed. He said people suffered more from
inattention to cleanliness and fresh air, than from
any necessary physical evils. “I cannot,” he said,
in conclusion, “but observe the goodness of Providence
in making those things which are essential
to health accessible to all; I mean, to all the native
population of our country; for they can have all
that I have prescribed for you, Miss Charlotte;
abundance of simple, nourishing food, warm garments,
plenty of clean water, and pure air; the
two last articles, more valuable than all the gold
of Peru, are sadly undervalued and neglected.”

At first it must be confessed that Charlotte was
disappointed that the doctor prescribed no medicine,
no plaster, nothing from which she might expect
sudden relief; but she soon looked calmly
and submissively at the case as it was, and received
most thankfully the prospect of alleviation.
Dr. — inspired her with entire confidence; and
afterward, in relating the story to Susan and Harry
of her long interviews with him, she said it seemed
to her mysterious he took such an interest in
her. To them it did not, nor could it to any one
who knew the sweetly patient sufferer, nor to any
one who knew Dr. —, and knew that he valued
his profession chiefly as enlarging his means of
doing moral and physical good to his fellow-creatures.

“And only think,” said Charlotte, in conclusion,
taking from her trunk a note which she had wrapped
in her handkerchief, that it might get no spot
or blemish on it, “only think, after all, after his
coming to see me six times, and staying as long as
if he had been a common doctor, and had not any
other patient, only think of his sending me this billet
at last.”

In justice to Charlotte, we shall first give her
note to the doctor, as we think it marks the dignity,
integrity, and simplicity of her character.

One parcel was directed “To Miss Charlotte
May's sister Susy,” and the other, “To Miss Charlotte
May's `best friend, father and Susy excepted.'”
The contents of Susan's parcel proved to be
material for a nice winter dress (which, on measurement,
turned out an abundance for two); and
Harry's that capital manual for Americans, Selections
from the Works of Franklin. Those who
have returned from a journey with love-tokens in
the trunk for the dear ones at home, can sympathize
in the pleasure and gratitude of our humble
friends.

One word more, and the affair of the journey is
finished. Twenty dollars were left of Harry's gift
after all the expenses of the journey were paid. It
cannot be doubted that, as Charlotte said, “fifty
dollars is a great sum” in the hands of the frugal
poor. Charlotte offered him the balance as of
course his; and, when he declined it, insisted, till
he, a little hurt, said—

“Why, Lottie, I should feel just as bad as they
would in old times, if they had taken back a gift
they had laid on the Lord's altar; but I'll take the
money to father to put out for you.”

This was agreed on; and, being fortunately invested,
it amounted in a few years to a hundred
dollars; the income from it was seven a year,
and this little sum gave to our frugal and liberal
Charlotte more of the real enjoyment of property
than is often derived from productive thousands.
She had the luxury of giving, and the tranquillizing
feeling that she had something in reserve for a wet
day.