University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

We return home.—Medicine and Theology in Vermont.

Shakspeare.

—Mrs. Grant.

Our hero had been between two and three years from under
the paternal roof, and, strange as it may appear, had never visited
the place of his nativity. One image, connected with
home, haunted him. He saw it in the streets, in various
shapes, and oft times followed its reeling and devious course,
as the bewildered traveller follows the meteor which leads into
the marsh or pool, its poisonous origin. This image banished

from his mind all pleasing associations belonging to the scenes
of his childhood. It was an image of mourning and desolation.
It amounted almost to a monomania, that literally grew with his
growth, for he comprehended more and more the degradation
of his mother, and the misery of his father, as his mind expanded.
He shrunk from a nearer contemplation of the scenes
his memory presented, or his imagination suggested. He
dreaded the consequences of those too well remembered exhibitions
in all their hideousness. A visit to his father's house
when thought of, awakened an expectation of witnessing realities,
which fancy conjured up to view, and reason forced him to
anticipate. He even avoided speaking of home.

Zebediah Spiffard was now nearly nineteen years of age,
and as tall as nature or circumstances permitted him ever to
be. He had attained his growth sometime before, but had
been shook somewhat nearer the common length of man by the
fever and ague. His uncle in due time consented to his plan
of travelling, and, the notion once adopted, the old man became
anxious that his adopted son should be qualified to talk as loud
of London and Paris, Vesuvius and Pompeii, Apollo and Venus,
Raffaello and Corregio, and all the rest of it, as the sons
of his neighbours; but recommended, however, a short delay,
and a visit to his parents. Zeb felt and acknowledged the
propriety of his uncle's recommendation, but assented with
sad forebodings, and reluctantly prepared for a journey to Vermont,
although his heart felt the yearnings of affection towards
his unfortunate father.

Three winters and two summers had passed since leaving
home, and now, in the month of May, (so bright and warm in
Italy and Virginia, and so delightful in English poetry, although
so cold and dreary in both old and new England) young Mr.
Spiffard arrived safely at his native village of Spiffard-town, in
the beautiful valley of Long-pond.

Spiffard-town had grown faster than our Zeb. Two new
steeples decorated the hill, proving freedom, and, of course,
diversity of opinion. No old church claiming infallibility
and exclusive right of sway over the minds and actions of men,
because it could trace its origin to the times of mental darkness,
was here suffered to blast the seed or the growth of God's
word, and man's happiness.

The melancholy thoughts which were suggested to the mind
of our hero as he approached the place, were dissipated, by
the air of improvement, and vigorous youth, that new houses,
recently cleared fields, with all the signs of a thriving community

presented to his eyes as he rode to the stage-house, denominated
the United States Hotel, and Spiffard-town Coffee
House. Neither the house nor its master had ever been seen
by him before, and unknowing and unknown he passed on to
his father's residence, after seeing his baggage in the safe custody
of the bar. As he approached the parental dwelling, he
was struck by the external marks of premature decay. This
strongly contrasted with the youthful freshness of the newly
erected houses he had passed. They were neat and tastefully
painted white, with green blinds. The neglect on his father's
premises told a tale of sorrow. The white paint had not been
renewed since he left the village, and the once cheerful face
of home was spotted like an Indian with the leprosy, as if
giving note of the diseased state of things within. The palings
of the court-yard fence were broken, and the gate hung by
one hinge. A pane of glass in one of the upper windows had
been broken, and its place was supplied by an old white hat.

Every heart-sinking thought that had occurred to the sensitive
youth during his journey, was revived, and rushed upon
him with double force: the recollections of his boyhood came not
as bright visions of past joy, but as images of loathsome realities—long
detested, and oft banished—ever returning, and now
mingled with misgivings increased at every step and by every
object that met his view.

A cold rain added, (to the sufferings of his mind,) those physical
achings, shiverings and chills, which must be taken into
the account of the estimate of all mortal woe or weal, whether
identified and specified or not; and as Spiffard-town was with
out pavements, the slippery rain-wet-clay, and occasional mud
pits in his path, by no means cheered his walk or alleviated the
gloom, within or without.

He passed through the disabled gate and pushed open the
house-door, which had never been garnished by lock, and now
had no latch. The old house-dog growled as he entered the
street door, but the next moment wagged his tail, tried to look
in his face with eyes covered by the film of old age, licked his
hand, and whined a mournful note of recognition. But poor
old Cato, like all that the youth had seen on his return to his
native place, bore the marks of neglect and decay; and although
his greetings were meant to be cordial, they took
naught from the weight which oppressed the young man's heart.
He turned into the well-known “keeping room,” which appeared
as if diminished to half its former size. Here he found the first
human creature that had greeted him. In the first apartment

that he entered—the room where in days of yore he had
mingled with the family in all domestic appliances, he saw a
little girl, too young to be left unattended, who was sitting on
the floor by the hearth, and near to the remains of a fire:
she looked at him with a vacant stare, and said, whiningly,
“Mama's in the bed-room.”

This was his sister—his mother's youngest child. He bent
down to kiss her, but was repulsed with an exclamation, “Go
along! you are an ugly man! Don't come here again!”

“And where is your papa?”

“Gone for the doctor.”

Poor Spiffard! he felt as though all his misgivings and surmises
were realized. Hardly knowing what he did, the youth
again attempted to kiss his sister, although her neglected appearance
little tempted him to the act; he wanted to touch, in
sympathy, some being to whom his blood had affinity—he could
have wept upon the bosom of the child—but she turned from
him with “Go along! You are ugly! Don't come here any
more! They are all in the bed-room.”

At this moment his father and the doctor entered. Spiffard
saw that in less than three years his father had become an old
man.

We will pass over the particulars of his reception by his unfortunate,
kind-hearted father, and his interview with his
wretched mother, who was sinking into the grave, mind and
body exhausted, conscious of the cause of her own and her husband's
misery—tortured by the fears of death, and an eternity
for which she was little prepared. But a scene had passed in
the young man's presence, previous to his meeting with the unhappy
invalid, which we must briefly notice. Such scenes
would be often repeated, if the medical men of our country towns,
had, generally, the good sense and determined spirit of the physician
who, as above mentioned, had been brought, by her husband,
to visit Mrs. Spiffard.

The usual medical attendant upon the sick woman, was a
young professor of the healing art, who dwelt in Spiffard-town,
and had to establish himself in the world of Long-pond, by
yielding to the whims of patients, nurses, and visiters, temporal
and spiritual; but the person now introduced to the house, and
not for the first time, was Dr. Woodward, a man of long established
reputation for skill and knowledge, who lived near
twenty miles off, and only came thus far when called on particular
occasions. He had long attended the family of Spiffard,
when the urgency of the case required his presence, and at all

times advised and directed the practice of the younger and resident
physician.

Woodward was a rough-hewn yankee; a man of talents,
study, and experience. Soon after entering the house, he had
left the son and father together, and with the familiarity of an
old acquaintance and veteran practitioner, licensed so to do, had
gone into the chamber of the sick woman. Zeb and his father
had scarcely exchanged those greetings the occasion required,
and their feelings prompted; those inquiries on the son's part,
respecting his father's and his mother's condition, had been but
begun, (inquiries that were answered more fully by the son's
presentiments than by the father's words,) before Woodward
abruptly entered, and addressed Spiffard thus:

“I have told you, squire, before this, that those cursed varmint
of croaking men and canting women are killing your wife.
And now I tell you, once for all, that you needn't send for, or
come for me again, unless you give me absolute power over
the sick chamber and the patient.”

“Why, what's the matter, Doctor?”

“Murder's the matter! murder! You promised me that no
one should be allowed to disturb the poor critter. I told you
that all the chance she had from my medicine was by keeping
her mind quiet; and I told Dr. Chubs the same. But he's
young, and thinks he musen't forbid that fellow coming with his
bellows and furnace, because he has got a barn to preach in,
and fools to groan with him. If she wants a clergyman, you
have one at hand in Parson Wilford, who knows his duty to
God and man, as far as I know.”

“And have they taken advantage of my absence while going
to call you? I ordered the nurse to admit no one.”

“The room is full. That yellow-faced crow, Martin, who
couldn't live by goose and cabbage, as a tailor, is howling like
a wolf; and a wolf he is in sheep's clothing: and a dozen
women are groaning and sobbing like a camp-meeting; while
your wife lies frightened into hysterics, and will die—and
quickly too, if not rescued from the philistines.”

“I will be obeyed,” said the husband; and was going—

“Stop!” said Woodward; “do you give me full powers?”

“Yes. Your orders shall be obeyed!”

“Then stay you here. I'll give them a touch of my practice.”

Woodward again entered the sick woman's chamber. Spiffard
stood like a statue, waiting the event. His father paced the
room. A noise, like the confusion of a miniature Babel, assailed

their ears in every key (though not in every language,)
that the human voice can be screwed to by passion. Woodward
re-entered, literally dragging the yellow-faced crow—the
preaching tailor, into the “keeping-room,” by the collar of his
coat, and followed by a mob of vociferous women. The physician,
the captured crow, the nurse, and every female, young
or old, protested, railed, exclaimed, squeaked, or shouted.
Every voice was exerted to the utmost, and they were of every
pitch and compass, from the commanding, deep-toned bass of
the doctor, and the hoarse croaking of the crow, to the cracked
treble of goody Stubs, the nurse. The tumult ceased a little,
as some of the out-criers saw that a stranger was present.

“Have you no respect for my cloth?” said the tailor.

“Yes,” said the physician, “when you are stitching it in the
way of your vocation, and in your proper place, mounted on
your shop-board; but none for you, or your cloth, when stuck
up in a pulpit, you make it a covering for ignorance and knavery,
or intrude your noisy fanaticism where peace and restare
necessary to alleviate suffering.”

“I give you warning!”

“And I again warn you not to interfere with my practice.
When you spoiled my coat, I let it pass; but you shan't kill
my patients.”

“O, the blasphemous ruffian!” exclaimed a squeaking
voice.

“I will save her precious soul!” cried the tailor.

“I'll maul your onprecious body, you croaking cormorant,
if ever you intrude within my province again.”

“I'll do my duty.”

“And I'll do my duty, you carrion-crow, and prevent murder;
which the sight of your yellow face, and the sound of your
sepulchral voice has more than once caused, by terrifying the
weak, and bringing despair to the convalescent. If you knew
your duty, since you cannot cut the pattern of a pair of breeches
without spoiling them, you would make yourself useful by cutting
down trees, and ploughing up new land with a team of
stout oxen; but you plough with other men's heifers, you philistine.
You find it more pleasant to manage a flock of geese,
whom you can pluck, than to wield one goose in the miserable
garret you have exchanged for that barn, you call a tabernacle.”

While speaking, Woodward kept fast hold of Martin's collar,
and with a hand like a blacksmith's vice, and an arm of
iron, had by this time dragged him from the keeping-room into
the hall or entry; then thrusting him towards the street-door,

he continued, “When I give over my patients, which is no
till death takes them out of my hands, then come and catterwaul
over them if you like; but if I can prevent it, you shall
not help to kill them—that's my business.” He then returned,
crying out to those who lagged, “Come! clear out, all of you!
out! out with you!” he said, as he pushed the tailor's admirers
to the door, “follow your leader!”

“Mr. Spiffard, do you suffer us to be turned out of your
house?”

“Yes, neighbours, I desire you to leave the place for the
present. You know that I have requested that—”

“No ceremony,” said Woodward, “it is life or death. I go,
or they go.”

“You will repent this in fire and brimstone; in the bottomless”—

“Any where, Goody Crank, out of your company.” The
doctor having made a clear coast by putting the last of the visiters
out, turned to the nurse, “Look ye, Mrs. Stubs, I gave
you orders not to let that fellow and those women murder the
person entrusted to your care, by frightening her into her coffin
before you and I have done with her; and I now tell you,
that if you permit any more of this infernal catterwauling where
I have a patient, I will present you to the grand jury as a nuisance,
if not an accessory in killing by torture—or murdering
under false pretences.”

“Mr. Doctor, I have too much feeling for the soul of—”

“Hold your tongue, woman! You are employed to take
care of Mrs. Spiffard's body!—what do you know about people's
souls? Ah! here comes one to whom I am willing to
entrust my patients, body and soul.”

At that moment a venerable man in a rusty black coat, over
the collar of which descended his silver-white hair, was seen
descending from one of those four-wheeled vehicles, since
called dearborns. He entered without knocking, and with the
courtesy of a gentleman, the bland air and cheerful countenance
of an apostle of the religion of love, he saluted the Doctor
and the elder Spiffard.

“You have had a numerous company I see by the many departing
guests. Has any thing new occurred?”

“No, Mr. Wilford, the old story! Murdering my patients
—taking my trade out of my hands. I am legally authorized
to kill, and you have heaven's sanction and that of your own
conscience, to preach peace to those I dismiss to a better world,
if you find them fit for it; I am willing to practice with you, but

I am chafed when I see all I can do to help the sick, undone
by ignorant impudent hypocrites.”

“God only knows the heart, Doctor Woodward.”

“But man can judge of the heart by the actions, Mr. Wilford.
Now, there are no two critters on God's earth more
dissimilar in most things, than you and I are: yet no man ever
thought either of us a hypocrite. But whether that stay-tape-and-buckram-fellow,
who has half the women of the country at
his beck, is hypocrite or fanatic, he must not interfere with my
patients. I can do my own business—ask the sexton, if you
doubt it.”

“You are severe upon neighbour Martin, Doctor. I fear
you are intolerant in your religious creed.”

“No, sir, I am in that, a disciple of Roger Williams and
Harry Vane. Let every man worship his own way; I object
not, provided he does not serve the devil. I call no one infidel
or heretic for believing more or less than I believe; but I resist
the despotism of man over the conscience, whether he be a
tailor, a bishop, or a pope.”

“May I let Mr. Wilford into Mrs. Spiffard's chamber, sir?”
asked the nurse.

“Yes, Mrs. Stubs, he is a physician for the soul. However,
remember, he don't want any female apothecaries to assist
him. But first I will visit my patient, and do you attend
me, and mind my directions.”

Thus saying, the eccentric physician, attended by the nurse,
retired, leaving the two Spiffards, father and son, with the venerable
minister of the gospel of peace.

In the infinite variety of contrasts which the human family
presents to view, no two characters can form a greater than we
see in the enlightened and benevolent disciple of the christian
religion, who sees in his God a father, and in his neighbour a
brother, and one of those ignorant egotistical men who represent
every one as an enemy to religion, and a child of perdition, who
does not believe that the Author of all Good is in a state of
eternal wrath with the creatures on whom he is showering
every blessing. Mr. Wilford nursed the sick, (if his personal
aid was needed,) soothed the suffering, instructed the ignorant,
and engaged the wise in active plans of benevolence; not to
promote an exclusive sect, or propagate exclusive doctrines,
(for he opposed no doctrines but those which prohibited liberty
of conscience,) but to spread that knowledge which teaches
charity and forbearance towards others, with doubts of self, and
confidence in God.

Happily truth must prevail. Those dangerous doctrines
which enslave men politically under the mask of religion, are
sinking into contempt and abhorrence with the tyrannies which
supported them, and are supported by them. The struggle
may yet be protracted, for with the tyrants of the earth, and
their emissaries, it is a struggle for existence: but neither force
nor art can prevail against knowledge which has gained the
sanction of experience. Those monstrous errors which claim
authority from an antiquity surrounded by the darkness of the
middle ages, and stained with the crimes of murder, havoc, and
massacre, inflicted upon those who saw a beam of light, and
held fast to opinion for conscience sake—those errors, will be
known hereafter only to raise the wonder of the hearer or
reader, that such fatal absurdity could have existed.