University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
A YANKEE DOCTOR.

“We shall hardly visit Dr. Perkins to-day,” said Frankford,
as they entered the breakfast-room. “What a terrible
storm you have—why, the snow is a foot deep already.”

“O, yes,” replied the Squire, “it snows pretty fast,
but I think it will soon be over, and we are not at all
frightened, as we always expect a storm at Thanksgiving.”

The conversation then continued respecting the climate
of New England, and the good Squire displayed much
philosophical research in accounting for the difference of
heat and cold in countries within the same latitude, and
considerable acumen in deducing particular facts from
general causes.

The storm, however, increased, notwithstanding the
Squire's prediction, and the Englishman's impatience,
who really wanted to spend the day with Perkins. As
they were contriving where to obtain a carriage, Silas
Romilly having taken his father's the day before, and
gone with his bride, to accompany her sister to Nottingham,
her place of residence, Dr. Perkins drove up to the
door.

“I have come to fetch you both,” said he, shaking the
snow from his feet as he entered, “for otherwise I might
have been disappointed of the pleasure I have promised
myself in your society to-day. Sidney was not always

to be daunted by a northeaster, but a southern sun has
doubtless enervated him a little, and Mr. Frankford's
health would be a sufficient apology for his neglect. But
I was resolved that no excuse should be left you, so get
your hats and overcoats instantly.”

The gentlemen gladly complied with this very frank
invitation, for they both felt the languor and ennui which
are apt to steal on the body and mind after the excitement
of a night's revel, and these were now heightened
by a severe and gloomy storm. Such feelings we know
are not local, yet the eagerness with which all seek a
change of place as a relief would imply it.

A ride of something less than a mile, brought them
to the door of a neat, snug, one story house, painted
white; a color which looks well in summer, but has,
during the winter, an appearance of coldness rather uncomfortable
to gaze upon. However, when the door
opened, the gentlemen found the cheerlessness was all
without. The doctor ushered them into his parlor,
where a rousing fire, carpeted floor, and cushioned chairs,
promised them all of comfort an Englishman could desire.

Mrs. Perkins came forward and gave them a smiling
welcome. Her very pretty face was rendered more interesting
by that air of maternal kindness and concern
called forth by the illness of the infant she held in her
arms, and which, to her husband's eager inquiries, was
reported much better. Another sweet little boy, of between
two and three years, sat on the carpet playing with
his kitten; but the moment his father entered, his playthings
were abandoned, and he sprung to embrace him.

Mr. Frankford, at first, almost fancied himself introduced
into the nursery, but he soon found the children
were entitled to all the privileges of place enjoyed by
any of the family, and that no separate apartment or
confinement with nurses and servants was found necessary
in this land of “equal rights.” So the Englishman
sat down, having Mrs. Perkins and babe on one hand

and the doctor in his arm-chair, with his boy on his knee,
at the other.

The doctor, after again welcoming them, and stirring the
fire, began to rally Sidney on the speculations which his
gallantry at the ball had excited. “We all think Annie
an angel,” continued he; “and were our religion Catholic,
she would most certainly be worshiped: and you must
be very clever or we shall not resign her even to a Romilly,
though that is an honored name among us.”

“I noticed, last evening, a little man who betrayed
quite an anxious interest for Miss Redington,” said Sidney;
“pray, who is he?”

“O, it was Skinner,” replied Perkins;—“Ephraim
Skinner, by name, and a skinner by nature, also. I never
observed the least sensibility in that man except what
Annie has awakened, and I believe she is the only human
being for whom he feels any tenderness.”

“Is he her lover?” asked Sidney.

“No—only a dangler; yet, I really think the fellow
would love her if he had a heart. My wife always looks
as if she wanted to check me when I utter censure; but
indeed, gentlemen, I am not given to evil speaking. I
am much happier in praising than condemning, when
truth will warrant it; nor will I wantonly expose faults
when the offender shows by his conduct that he regrets
them. But the man who glories in mischief deserves no
mercy.”

“What is his profession?” inquired Frankford, who
seemed interested by the ardor his host displayed.

“He is a merchant, a money-lender, and a miser,” replied
Perkins,—“three vocations in which he labors
unceasingly.”

“Skinner?” repeated Sidney; “I have no recollection
of such a name. Is he a native of Northwood?”

“O, no; he is from Connecticut, the land of steady
habits; and he certainly has the habit of being steady
in the pursuit of his own interest. He came here about
five years since, and, always taking advantage of the

times, and when he can, of his customers, he has realized
a handsome property.”

“But riches will not surely recommend such a character
to the favor of Miss Redington?” said Sidney.

“No, indeed,” replied Mrs. Perkins; “she would not
marry him if he had an ocean of gold. I think she detests
him as much as her generous heart will permit her
to detest a human being; but Deacon Jones thinks him
an excellent man and an excellent match.”

“To the deacon's perception,” said the doctor, “riches
not only cover a multitude, but all sins; and there is
another bond of sympathy between him and Skinner—
they think exactly alike on religious subjects.”

“I should not imagine,” said the Englishman, smiling,
“from your representations of Skinner, he would be very
particular about his religious tenets.”

“But he is, sir,” replied the Doctor, “very particular
to adopt the theory he finds most popular; and perhaps
it is not so difficult for him to believe in total depravity
as it would be for a better man; and certainly his salvation,
if he ever attain to such a glorious state, must, unless
he alter his practices, be a matter of free grace, and
wholly by faith, as he has no good works on which to
depend. So you perceive his interest and his habits both
conspire to make him a sound orthodox believer; and
that consideration, added to his increasing wealth, gives
him great importance in the opinion of Deacon Jones,
and indeed of many others.”

“Yet these convenient qualities or qualifications—I
hardly know which to call them—have not, it seems, obtained
your favor,” said Frankford, laughing as much at
the manner of the speaker as the matter spoken.

“I have too often unmasked the villain to be deluded
by his vizor. My profession introduces me to families
of every grade and every situation, and much of their
private history is necessarily unfolded to me. And almost
every instance of poverty, intemperance and wretchedness,
which has for the last three or four years fallen
beneath my observation in this vicinity, I have found to

be either directly or indirectly the work of Skinner. It
would be disagreeable and tedious for me to relate, or
you to hear, these histories of debts, and mortgages, and
suits, and executions.”

“I should suppose,” said Sidney, “people would be
apprised of his artifices, and become wary of putting
themselves in his power.”

“Experience does not always teach wisdom,” replied
Perkins. “The man in want is usually weak, or at least
credulous to believe those professions which have his
interest or convenience for their ostensible object. Skinner
is a plausible creature, one who `can smile and smile
and be a villain;' in short, a hypocrite, a word including
almost every term of reproach.”

“I thought Connecticut was your stronghold of morality
and piety, a fountain that always sent forth pure
streams,” said the Englishman.

“You doubtless recollect the pathetic language of poor
Job to his wife,” said the Doctor. “The world and men
are still the same; we receive no good without a mixture
of evil—no garden is free from weeds—no society exempt
from pests and traitors. Connecticut is an excellent
State, and has given birth to excellent men, but all are
not such; and one restless, intriguing fellow, shall go
forth and do more mischief than a dozen good ones can
repair. We have, in our town, a number of deserving
men, who were natives of Connecticut, and it was in a
great measure owing to their character for probity, that
Skinner first obtained the confidence of our people.
Neither is he destitute of talents; and his industry is
unwearied. But the love of money—not merely the
root of evil, remember, but of all evil—has taken such
entire possession of his heart and soul, that it deadens or
destroys every kindly feeling of his nature. There is no
passion so engrossing as the love of money, when it
thoroughly possesses the whole man, and certainly none
which renders him so contemptible. The thirst for fame,
the pursuit of glory, may be indulged till they become
criminal, yet there is still an apology in the magnitude

and grandeur of the objects pursued; even the votaries
of pleasure exhibit, at intervals, a romantic tenderness
or generosity which palliates their follies or faults; but
your man of cent. per cent. has no feeling but for himself,
and can see no excellence but through the medium
of yellow dust. Alfred, my boy,” he continued, raising
his child from his knee, where he had been stationed for
some time, watching his father's rapid utterance with
pleased attention, “Alfred, I have given you a glorious
name, may you never sully it by making gold the idol
of your worship.”

The conclusion of this harangue, so different from what
the gentlemen expected, made them both smile, and
Frankford, following the last idea, inquired why the name
of Alfred was entitled to such an eulogium?

“I should not have expected that question from an
Englishman,” replied the Doctor. Frankford blushed.
“Your Alfred has immortalized the name, and that is
what few kings do.”

“And did you really name this pretty boy in reference
to our Alfred the Great?” asked Frankford, taking the
little fellow's hand.

“I did. I have, perhaps, rather peculiar ideas about
the propriety of given names. I think we too often neglect
a significancy in the appellation. Among the ancients
it was not thus an unmeaning sound; it excited
ideas of former incidents, or roused hopes of future
blessings. When we give our children the names of dear
or departed relatives or friends, there are sentiments of
affection and respect produced while repeating them;
when we call them for the good or illustrious, we are
reminded of the virtues and deeds which made the name
celebrated; but when we merely select a pretty sounding
word, we display neither refined taste, warm feelings, nor
just perceptions. I was the youngest of twelve children,
and born an uncle, and my brothers and sisters had
monopolized all the family names before I had an opportunity
of using them. My father had a half score of
grandsons called Josiah, for himself, and all my uncles

and grand uncles had been remembered, and so I concluded
to resort to history.”

“Have you given your other son as proud an appellative?”
asked the Englishman, surveying with a smile of
admiration the fair little creature, who was now playing
with the ringlets of his mother's hair, and every few moments
pressing his dimpled cheek to hers; while she
regarded him with a look of unutterable fondness and
delight.

thought Frankford, as he gazed upon them.

“That boy bears the name of my favorite Latin poet,
Horace,” said Perkins.—“Horace,” continued he with a
loud whistle; the child started, started at him a moment,
and then began to bound and laugh, all ecstasy at receiving
his father's attention; “Horace, you will never touch
the lyre like the Roman satirist; but you may manage a
farm as well as he did his Sabine villa, and live as happily.”

The conversation then turned on the beauties of Latin
and Greek poetry—the site of Troy—which Frankford
had visited—Alexander and Bonaparte—Roman eloquence—aborigines
of America—British manufactures—
culture of turnips—American literature—Shakspeare—
Milton—British Navy—Irish patriots—Emmet—character
of Washington—and the study of physic in Europe.

The discussion of these dissimilar subjects seemed to
follow each other naturally, without a designed introduction
by either party; and being interspersed with common
topics, and lively anecdotes related mostly by Perkins
with infinite humor, and enlivened by a dinner
bearing ample evidence of its thanksgiving fraternity;
excellent wine, cider and fruits—the apples blushing a
beautiful red without requiring the presence of Apollo,
engrossed and entertained them so happily, that the
shades of night began to descend, before Sidney or the
Englishman could believe the day had departed.

“I shall send my boy to drive you home,” said Perkins,
as he assisted Frankford to adjust his over-coat. “I
must mount my horse and ride twenty miles before to-morrow
morning.”

“What, to-night in such a storm, and on horseback
too!” said the Englishman.

“O yes, in the mountainous road I must travel, a carriage
would not be convenient; and for riding in the
evening, why, sir, I rode twelve miles last night after
leaving the ball; and dealt out to my patients a pretty
good supply of medicine, I assure you, in order that I
might have this day of leisure to enjoy with you and
Sidney.”

“And we have enjoyed it,” replied Frankford; “but
I little thought you would be subjected to such a penance
for your hospitality.”

“I should not value submitting to perform penance, if
by that means I might pass another day as pleasantly;
but business is not usually a penance to me, yet now I
should rather be excused, as my absence must, I fear, be
prolonged till after your departure on Monday. I have
patients, or rather impatients in the next town who have
sent requiring my attendance to-morrow, and I must not
return home without seeing them. So I thank you for
the pleasure of your society to-day, and wish you a prosperous
voyage to the land of your fathers; and sometimes
when your thoughts wander to America, may I
hope you will remember the Yankee doctor?”

As he concluded he took Frankford's hand, and pressed
it cordially.

The Englishman returned the pressure.

“I shall remember you while I live, and I hope meet
you again. Why do you not come to England? My
friend Romilly has promised to visit me next spring;
come with him. A tour abroad would to your strong
and inquisitive mind afford materials for much pleasure
and lasting improvement. Few men could see the world
with the advantages you possess: because your sound
judgment and practical education qualify you to make a

just estimation of men and things; and the gloss of
novelty would not deceive you. Come, then, and I will
aid your researches all in my power; I need not say
how gladly I should welcome you.”

“Sidney can go without any inconvenience,” replied
the doctor, “and were I in a similar situation I should
not hesitate. Yet I do not repine because he possesses
the means of gratifying all his wishes, while I am compelled
to bound mine by the distance my patients may
happen to reside. I believe our duties and happiness are
so closely connected that the better we fulfil the one, the
more perfectly we enjoy the other. And when you are
a married man, Mr. Frankford, and have a home rendered
dear by the presence of those you most love, you will
see all the world necessary to your felicity beneath your
own roof.”

As he ended, his eyes rested on his wife and children,
who returned his glance with those affectionate smiles
that so richly repay the toil of labor and the anxiety
of care.

“I shall note you down for the most perfect philosopher
I ever met with,” said Frankford.

“Not a silent one, nor a cynic, I hope,” replied Perkins,
laughing.

“No, indeed—I shall describe you as one whose life
illustrates the philosophical portion of your favorite Horace:
`that the happiness of life consists in serenity of
mind and virtuous enjoyments.' And I think there is
more sound philosophy in that ode than in many a huge
volume of jargon miscalled ethics. You are just the
character I have often wished yet never expected to see
—a man of an independent mind, enlightened yet unshackled
by education, and with an understanding governed
by reason alone.”

“And instructed by Revelation, you may add,” replied
Perkins, seriously. “I laugh at Deacon Jones' absurdities,
and I detest his prejudices; but I honor religion.
There can be no abiding excellence of character unless
it has a principle of piety for its basis. The glory of

Great Britain is more effectually supported by her Bible
Societies than her standing armies.”

Perhaps Frankford would willingly have spared this
unexpected burst of enthusiasm, as he felt inclined to call
it; but it was spoken so unaffectedly and sincerely he
felt a sentiment of respect for the candor which had
prompted the avowal.

They again shook hands, and after seeing them seated
in the carriage, Dr. Perkins bade the boy drive on, and
bowed his last adieu.

“Shall I never see that man again?” said the Englishman
to Sidney, bending from the carriage, as Perkins entered
his house. “And very soon I must part with you
and your amiable family. What a melancholy drawback
on the pleasure of traveling, that we either go over the
world without forming attachments with the deserving,
or abandon them almost as soon as we have learned their
value.”

To the inquiries of Squire Romilly, Mr. Frankford replied,
he had seldom passed a more agreeable day.

“Your doctor is a most original fellow,” said he, “and
possesses the happy talent of nicely discriminating character,
and readily applying principles, which is the charm
of intelligent conversation. And he is tolerably well
informed too; with every subject discussed, and they
were numerous, he appeared sufficiently familiar to be
agreeable, although I perceived he was not profoundly
erudite on any.”

“If you would consider the desultory manner in
which his education has been acquired,” replied the
Squire, “and the round of business in which he is now
engaged, you would cease to wonder he was not profound.”

“Perhaps so; but when a man pretends to knowledge,
we are, I think, at liberty to test his pretensions; we do
not require the display, yet when made it must be supported
or he cannot expect credit for his intelligence.
Your American mode of education is generally conducted
in a miscellaneous manner, and your scholars too often

verify the old adage of Pope, that `a little learning is a
dangerous thing.' Yet I am not applying these remarks
to Dr. Perkins. He is really a man of information, and
his learning sits so easily on him, there is amusement as
well as instruction in the display. I never saw a person
who could more readily adapt his conversation to the
taste or capacity of his company. I have before observed
your countrymen possessed a flow of ideas and
fluency of language no other people with whom I am
acquainted can boast. The French talk more, perhaps,
but they are triflers;—one Yankee would out-reason a
dozen Frenchmen could he make them listen to his arguments.
But the doctor, I was intending to observe, is at
home on every subject; one moment he converses professionally,
then he is the farmer, then the scholar, the
antiquary, the politician, and perhaps playing with his
children, or playing the buffoon immediately afterwards.
And all appears perfectly natural. Did you notice Mr.
Romilly, when his little boy hurt his head against the
table, Perkins was eagerly engaged in drawing an ingenious
parallel between Alexander and Bonaparte? but
he stopped, hushed the child by telling him the story of
the cat and the fiddle, and then proceeded in his parallel
without the least embarrassment or hesitancy.”

“Yes, I noticed it,” replied Sidney; “but Warren could
always wield any instrument or any argument, and succeed
in any study or business when he chose to exert
himself. He was born a Jack at all trades.”

“I think you Yankees all are,” said Frankford smiling;
“certainly I now find manual labor and mental refinement
more compatible than I ever imagined they could
be, and their united effects on the human character are
very favorable. Activity of body prevents the mind
from becoming the prey of ennui, while the cultivation
of the mind corrects that grossness and selfishness which
are so disgusting in the ignorant; and thus the mind and
body being preserved in a healthy and vigorous tone,
there is here, a freshness of intellect and feeling, a kind

of human spring, which is as delightful in the moral, as
the natural spring is to the physical world.”

“You could not have read our character more rightly
had you studied it a century,” exclaimed Squire Romilly,
starting from his seat and grasping the Englishman's
hand.

“Should I study it a century I should probably read
it differently,” replied Frankford, smiling with the most
winning kindness. “The season of youth for nations,
as well as individuals, will soon pass; what character
your country will finally attain I am not qualified to decide.
But I think there is reason to fear that what it
gains in glory will be lost in purity.”

“Ours is an experiment,” said Sidney, “yet with our
advantages there is not much fear but the result will be
favorable to human nature.”

“Hope everything—hope is the privilege of youth,”
said the Englishman, rising and laying his hand on his
bosom, “and from my heart I wish you success.”