University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Doctor Bristol called on his patient
the succeeding day; he found him
feverish, and petulant in spite of his
habitual politeness; he complained that
the opiate had not been powerful
enough. He anticipated a long delay;
he was used to disappointment, and for
himself could bear it; but he dreaded to
encounter his daughter's impatience.
Doctor Bristol understood too well the
arts of his vocation, he was too sagacious
a practitioner, not to have observed
that a skilful application to the mind is
often a surer remedy than any favourite

or fashionable drug. He accounted satisfactorily
to Mr. Redwood for the increase
of fever; he detected and brought
to light many favourable symptoms;
spoke of a ball which was to be given in
the village, and intimated that some of
the most respectable inhabitants would
wait on Miss Redwood, and deem themselves
honoured by her presence. He
produced some late newspapers which
he had procured at the post-office; the
last foreign reviews; and succeeded in
producing as sudden a change of symptoms
as an empiric would have promised.

Mr. Redwood described the extraordinary
scene he had witnessed during
the night; asked many questions, and
with particular interest in relation to
the young lady whose face and demeanour
had impressed him as belonging to
an elevated sphere. Doctor Bristol assured
him, that his sagacity was not at
fault, for Miss Bruce (the young lady

in question) was not a member of the
Lenox family, but a stranger at Eton,
and a friend of the Allens. Mr. Redwood
said that the various modes of religious
superstition always interested
him; he was amused with seeing how
willing man was to be the dupe of his own
inventions; and intimating, that in the
eye of experience and enlightened observation,
all the forms of religious faith
were equally absurd; shackles which
men imposed, or wore, from tyranny or
imbecility, he concluded by insinuating
a compliment upon the free-thinking
which was so common among the enlightened
of the doctor's profession.
Doctor Bristol, without assuming the
attitude of combat, or seeming entirely
to comprehend the drift of Mr. Redwood's
remarks, observed, that there
were, in his fraternity, some distinguished
exceptions to the charge which had
been laid against them. Every one acknowledged
the authority of Boerhaave's
name, “and our own Rush,” he said,
(speaking with honourable pride of his
master,) “is among the most humane
and enlightened of philosophers, and
the most humble of Christians.” Mr
Redwood perceived that he had not proceeded
with his usual tact; that he had
presumed too far upon what he considered
the necessary result of Doctor Bristol's
general intelligence. He avoided any
farther remarks which might have a
tendency to disclose his own sentiments,
and confined himself to comments on
the persons he had observed the preceding
night. He said he hardly knew
whether the opinions of those people
seemed to him most ridiculous or shocking.
“Truly, he knew not which most
to pity; the poor old woman who fancied
a silly girl must lose all chance of
salvation, because forsooth, she had forsaken
the world, and in good faith
joined a gloomy and self-denying order;
or her child, the shaking quaker who
had immolated every right and natural
affection to an imaginary duty; who
had forsaken all that made life a blessing,
to follow an ignorant fanatic, or
an impudent impostor.” The doctor acknowledged
that such mistakes were
lamentable; the result of limited knowledge,
or accidental prejudices. Still,
he thought, that while we lamented the
errors to which we were liable, we
might rejoice that the light we enjoyed
was light from heaven, though its clearness
must depend somewhat on the purity
of the atmosphere into which it was
introduced; the mists of ignorance might
dim, but did not extinguish its pure ray.
If an immortal hope led these people to
some unnecessary sacrifices, it stimulated
them to those that were necessary; for
he believed there was no variety of the
Christian faith, however distorted from
the perfection of the original model,
which did not insist on a pure morality.

The doctor invited Mr. Redwood to
observe the state of things about him;

the wise and excellent institutions which
had sprung from the religion of the pilgrims;
the intelligence and morality
that pervaded the mass of the people,
which might be said to emanate from the
principle of equality, derived from the
Christian code. He spoke of the religious
zeal and active benevolence which
pervades our society, which, not neglecting
the means of moral regeneration
at home, sends its missionaries to the
fearful climate of the east; to the barbarians
of the south, and to the savages
of our own dangerous wilderness. These
noble efforts were not, as in older countries,
supported by the pious zeal of a
few of the bountiful, or the gifts of the
penitent rich, who by a kind of spiritual
commutation, expected to purchase, by
their brilliant charities, the remission of
their sins, but, for the most part, they
were the fruit of the virtuous self-denials
and exertions of the laborious classes of
the community.

Mr. Redwood listened with more
patience than could have been expected
from one who had philosophic prejudices;
more inveterate perhaps than
those which spring from the conceit of
ignorance, because they are fortified by
the pride of knowledge, and assume the
form of independent opinions which is
so flattering to our self-love. There was
something too in doctor Bristol's manner
that recommended every sentiment he
uttered; it was so calm, so dispassionate,
there was so much of the serenity of truth
in it. There was no extravagant statements;
he did not insist that another
should believe, because he felt the truth
of such and such propositions; he did
not enter ino a formal argument, but
intimated the grounds on which his own
opinions had been formed, and permitted
Mr. Redwood to draw his own conclusions,
hoping they would be such,
as seemed to him natural and inevitable.

Mr. Redwood made minute inquiries
in relation to the Lenox family. He
expressed his surprise and regret, that
they had not thought proper to interfere
and detain by force, if necessary, the
foolish little girl, who he predicted
would soon be sick of her folly. He
was pleased to hear that the doctor, as
well as himself, regarded Deborah as an
amusing original; and he again intimated
some curiosity in relation to Miss
Bruce, which the doctor either could not,
or did not choose to gratify. He did
not allow the doctor to leave him till
he had requested him to make his visits
as long and as frequent as possible, nor
till he had expressed in the most flattering
terms, his entire confidence in the
doctor's professional ability.

Miss Redwood entered her father's
room as doctor Bristol left it, to make
her dutiful enquiries which were perhaps
nearly as much a matter of form as the
professional visit of the physician. After

she had gone through the customary
routine of, “how he had slept? how
he felt himself,” &c. she said, “if
you have no objections, papa, I will
take a drive this afternoon to the
village while this funeral is going on
here. Ralph tells me, the injury done
to the carriage yesterday was very
slight, and that he can have it in order
by one o'clock, the hour appointed for
the funeral.”

“If that is the case, my dear,” replied
Mr. Redwood, “you will gratify me
if you will forego your ride, and offer
the carriage for the use of the poor old
woman and her young friend: they
have not probably as covenient a mode
of riding, and I am told it is customary
in New-England for the female
relatives to follow the body to the
grave.”

“How barbarous!” exclaimed Miss
Redwood; “but thank fortune there
is no occasion, for Lilly tells me, the

old woman is too sick to go out, and is
just to sit up and hear the sermon and
all that; and so, papa, if you have no
objections I will take the carriage, and
get out of the way: funerals and all that
sort of thing, are so dull and disagreeable;
I don't see the use of them.”

The poet's doctrine, that “sweet are
the uses of adversity,” was nearly as
foreign from the father's as the daughter's
experience: but he perceived that
the good-will of the Lenox family
would be of very material use to them;
and thinking that it might be conciliated
by the deference to their feelings which
would be evinced by Miss Redwood's
presence at the funeral solemnity, he requested
her to gratify him by deferring
her own inclinations. The request had
too much authority in it to be denied;
and though Miss Redwood thought it
great folly to take the trouble to win
favour which might be purchased, she
did not in the end regret that she had
complied with her father's request, so

much was she amused with the number
and aspect of the crowd which the occasion
assembled.

The observances of a funeral in a
country town in New-England are quite
primitive; but their simplicity is more
touching than the most pompous ceremonial,
for it speaks the language of nature
to natural and universal feelings; and
even to those who are not of that soft
mould that is easily impressed by human
sympathies, and who have only witnessed
this last scene in the drama of
life in a city, the spectacle of a country
funeral must always be curious. In town,
a funeral procession scarcely attracts
the eye of the boy who is carelessly
trundling his hoop, or flying his kite, and
the busy and the gay bustle past, as if
they cared for none of these things, and
had neither part nor lot in them. But
in the country, where life is not so
plentiful; where each knows his neighbour,
the events of his life, and the hope

he may have had in death; the full import
and terrible significance of this
event is felt. Some will attend a funeral,
because they remember a kind
word or deed of the departed, or, it
may be, a kind look that inspired a personal
interest; some, from respect to
the living; some because it is good to go
to the house of mourning: the old would
not shrink from the admonition they
hear there, and the old take the young
because they ought not to shrink from
it: some like to watch the tears of the
mourners, and some to note there are
no tears. The motives that draw any
crowd together are almost as various as
the persons that compose it. On this
occasion, there was an universal sentiment
of compassion for the solitary
aged mourner, and of respect for the
memory of the departed. Miss Redwood
took her statian at one extremity
of the apartment in which the assembly
met. She was arrayed with studied
elegance; Lilly stood on one side of her
chair and a footman in livery on the
other: the body of the deceased was on
the opposite side of the room: next to
it sate Mrs. Allen, and beside her, and
supporting her, Ellen, who, in a simple
white dress, her face beaming with tender
sympathy, looked like the embodied
spirit of religion. Perhaps beauty is
never more touching than when exclusively
occupied with the sufferings of
others, it is lit up with that divine expression
of tender compassion, which, to a
religious imagination, is the peculiar
attribute of an angel's face. Next Ellen
sate Mr. and Mrs. Lenox and their
numerous family, all clad in mourning;
their sad looks suiting well with their
badges of grief. The two youngest
children were placed on a bench at their
parent's feet, and whenever they could
withdraw their eyes from the various
objects that attracted them, they would
peep into their parent's faces, and catching
the expressive language of sorrow,
fall to crying, till some new object diverted
their attention. Miss Deborah,
having no part of her own to perform,
acted as mistress of ceremonies. She
spoke, perhaps, oftener and louder than
was necessary, but on the whole, she
conducted her affairs with less official
bustle than is common on such occasions.
After having made a clear space
for the clergyman in the centre of the
room, and assigned to others their places,
allotting the arrangement of the procession
to a gigantic militia Major, who
usually filled that office, she seated herself
at the foot of the coffin, permitted
a large gray cat that came purring
through the crowd to take its usual station
in her lap, composed her muscles
to a rigid attention, and motioned to
the clergyman to begin his duty. He
made an affecting exhortation, founded
on the 15th chapter of the Epistle to the
Corinthians. A funeral hymn was sung,
and he then proceeded to close the services
with a prayer, not however until
Deborah had whispered to him, “the
old lady is just spent, be short, Sir: pray
but a breath or two.” The aged mourner
had listened without once raising her
eyes, without a sigh or a movement. It
seemed as if time or grief had dried the
fountain of her tears, for not one was
seen on her furrowed cheek. The services
over, the Major ordered the crowd
to fall back to the right and left, while
the coffin was carried out. His order
was obeyed, (though with somewhat
less of military precision than it was
given,) and the coffin was placed in the
court-yard under the wide spreading
branches of an elm tree. He then returned
to the door, and in the tone of
military command, desired the mourners
to advance and look at the corpse, and
added a notice to the assembly to come
forward immediately after the mourners
had retired, it being necessary that all
should take their last looks now, as the
lid of the coffin was to be screwed down
before the procession moved: a burst of
grief from the group of mourners
evinced that these commands, given out
as the mere forms of preparation, were
to them the dreadful signal of a final
separation. Mrs. Allen rose from her
chair, but even with Ellen's aid was unable
to move forward till doctor Bristol,
advancing from the crowd, gave her
the support of his stronger arm. She
then approached the coffin, and bent
for the last time over the body of her
child; her tears, which had been checked
till this moment, now flowed freely;
and as she raised her head, she perceived
they had fallen on Edward's face; she
said nothing, but carefully wiped them
away. “She is right,” whispered Doctor
Bristol to Ellen. “Edward has
nothing more to do with tears: they are
all wiped away.” “Oh, my son,” exclaimed
Mrs. Allen, in a low broken
voice, “would to God Emily laid beside
you; then would I thankfully lay
down my weary body with you.
But,” she added, after a moment's
pause, in which her piety struggled
with her nature, “God's will be done.”

“Glad am I to hear those words,”
said Debby, who stood near enough to
catch the feeble sounds: “the poor old
lady's cup has been brimful of trouble so
long that it would not be strange if she
did think herself something crowded
on.”

“Crowded on—what can the woman
mean?” asked a young man of his companion;
but before the inquirer could
obtain a reply, he was jostled out of his
place by others eagerly pressing forward
to gaze for the last time on the
face of the deceased. All as they
turned away looked on Mrs. Allen,
and some perhaps wondered that the
leafless scaithed trunk should have been
passed by, and the young sapling cut

down in its prime and beauty. Mrs.
Allen was led back to the house, attended
by Ellen and doctor Bristol; they
passed through the apartment where
Miss Redwood still maintained her
station, and where she continued to
gaze upon all that passed before her with
the indifference with which she would
have regarded the shifting scenes of a
wearisome play: the Major approached
her, and with awkward but well-meant
civility, told her she would have a good
chance now to look at the corpse, and,
being she was a stranger, he would see
her through the crowd himself

“Oh thank you,” she replied disdainfully,
“I have no fancy for looking at
dead people, and certainly I shall not
look at one dead that I never saw living.”
The Major, thus rebuffed, turned away,
and meeting Debby, he said in a low
tone, “I rather think that young stranger
girl has got to find out yet that she
is mortal.” “Why, bless my soul! a

body would think her road did not
lay grave-ward; but young, and handsome,
and topping as she is, she must
come to it at last.” “She is a pretty
creature though to look at,” he added,
paying her the tribute of another full
stare; “she is almost as handsome as the
wax-work Rode-Island beauty.”

“Pooh, pooh,” replied Debby, “handsome
is that handsome does,” and she
glanced her eyes towards Ellen Bruce;
that is my rule, it is an old one, but it
will never wear out.”

“Miss Debby is right,” whispered a
pert girl, with the insolence of youth;
“quite right to stick to every thing that
is old.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Debby, who unluckily
overheard her, “quite right, till
there is more reason to hope that the
rising generation will make good the
places of those who have gone before
them.”

A call was now given to form the

procession. Mrs. Allen was conducted
by her kind attendants to her own
apartment. The rooms were cleared,
the procession moved away, and the
house was restored to its usual quiet and
order.