With us there was a Doctor of Physic:
In all this world ne was there none him like,
To speak of physic and of surgery.
* * * * *
He knew the cause of every malady,
Were it of cold, or hot, or moist, or dry,
And where engendered, and of what humor:
He was a very perfect practiser.
The cause y know, and of his harm the root,
Anon he gave to the sick man his boot.
CHAUCER.
The first care of the faithful Peéna or Esther, was to seek the
doctor. She found him at home, and was instantly admitted to his
presence.
"Queen Esther," he exclaimed, the moment he saw her, "is it thou?
Welcome, descendant of a line of kings. Would'st like some cider?" He
spoke the word "cider" like the Indians, with a rising inflection on
the last syllable. It was an offer no Indian could resist, and the
squaw answered simply in the affirmative. From a pitcher of the
grateful beverage, which shortly before had been brought into the
room, and which, indeed, suggested the offer, the doctor filled a
foaming glass, and the squaw was not long in draining its contents,
after which she delivered herself of her errand.
"Esther," exclaimed the doctor, rising and hastening to collect his
instruments and medicine pouch, "thou hast circumvented me. Why did
you not tell me before? Here have I been pouring cider into your
royal gullet, when I should have hastened to take a bullet out of some
plebeian carcass. Can you tell me the name of the wounded man?"
The squaw shook her head, and only said, "Esther not know."
By this time his preparations were completed, which he had not allowed
the conversation to interrupt, and closely followed by the woman, he
hastened to the wharf. Here casting an eye to the flys that waved from
the masts of some of the vessels, and observing the wind was fair, he
rejected her offer to take him in the canoe, and throwing himself
into a little sail-boat, was soon busily engaged in untying the sails.
While thus employed a voice saluted his ears:
"Why, doctor, what is in the wind now?"
The person who thus addressed him was a young man of probably not more
than twenty-five years of age. His dress indicated that he belonged to
the wealthier class of citizens, and there was something pleasing in
his manners and address.
"Glad to see you, William," said the doctor. "I want a crew; come,
ship for a cruise."
"But where away, doctor?"
"To Holden's island, to visit a wounded man. Jump aboard, and tend
jib-sheets."
By this time the sails were hoisted, and, the young man complying with
the invitation, the little craft was soon under weigh, and rapidly
proceeding down the river. The distance was only three or four miles,
and quickly passed over. They were met on the beach by Holden, to whom
the gentlemen were both known, but he was unable to inform them of the
name of the wounded man. As soon as the doctor beheld him, however, he
exclaimed:
"It is Mr. Pownal. God forbid the hurt should be serious."
The countenance of the doctor's companion, and the few words he
uttered, denoted also recognition of the stranger.
"So, my poor fellow," said the doctor, as the sufferer extended a
hand, and expressed in a few words his pleasure at the coming of the
two, "that is enough, I claim a monopoly of the talking."
He proceeded at once to examine the wound, which he did with great
care and in silence. He found, as Holden had said, that the charge
had only grazed the surface, tearing the flesh from the side up to
the shoulder, pretty deeply, indeed, but making an ugly, rather than
a dangerous wound. After the task was completed, and lint and fresh
bandages were applied, the doctor sunk with a sigh, as of relief, upon
a chair, and assured the young man that he only needed rest for the
present, and in a day or two might return to his friends.
"I would rather lose six ordinary patients than you, Tom Pownal," he
said. "Why you are my beau ideal of a merchant, the Ionic capital of
the pillar of trade. Now, let not your mind be
'Tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood;
Or, as it were the pageants of the sea,
Do overpower the petty traffickers.'
Quiet, my dear boy, both of mind and body, are your indispensables. I
want you to understand that:
'I tell thee what, Antonio--
love thee, and It is my love that speaks.'"
Pownal promised to be very obedient, in consideration whereof the
doctor guaranteed he should receive great satisfaction from his wound.
"You shall see for yourself," he said, "how beautifully it will heal.
To a scientific eye, and under my instruction you shall get one, there
is something delightful in witnessing the granulations. We may say of
Nature, as Dr. Watts sings of the honey-bee:
'How skillfully she builds her cell,
How neat she stores the wax!'
I consider you a fortunate fellow."
The young men were obliged to smile at the doctor's way of viewing the
subject; but he paid little attention to their mirth.
"And I will remain, meanwhile, with you," said William Bernard, which
was the name of the gentleman who had accompanied the physician,
addressing himself to Pownal, "if our good friend,"--and here he
looked at Holden--"has no objection."
The Recluse signified his assent; and Pownal, thanking his friend, the
doctor gave his sanction to the arrangement.
"It will do you no harm, William," he said, "to rough it for a night
or two, and you will prove yourself thereby of a different stamp from
Timon's friends." And here the doctor, who loved to quote poetry,
especially Shakspeare's, better than to administer medicine, indulged
again in his favorite habit:
"'As we do turn our backs
From our companion thrown into his grave,
So his familiars, to his buried fortunes,
Slink all away; leave their false vows with him,
Like empty purses picked, and his poor self
A dedicated beggar to the air.'
But, Mr. Holden, lend me thy ears a moment, and thy tongue, too, if
you please, for you must tell me how this happened. I do not care to
disturb Pownal with the inquiry."
So saying, he walked out of the chamber, followed by the Recluse.
"Tell me first," said Holden, as they stood in the open air, "what
thou thinkest of the wound."
"Ha!" cried the doctor, "'tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a
church door; but 'tis enough--'twill serve."
"What!" exclaimed the Recluse, "hast thou been deceiving the boy! But
no, thou art incapable of that; and, besides, I have seen too many
wounds to apprehend danger from this."
"I see, friend, you have read Shakspeare to some purpose," cried the
doctor; "but know that I spoke not in the sense in which Mercutio
speaks of the wound that Tybalt gave him. My mirth is not so grave as
poor Mercutio's. Look you, now, I told you but the simple truth, and
what your own eyes have seen. The wound _is not_ so deep as a well,
nor so wide as a church door. If it were--admitting the physical
possibility--Pownal would be a monster to look at, and no dressings of
mine would be of any use. And it is enough, too. You would not have it
more. Besides, 'twill serve; that is, to keep him a day or two in
your cabin. And herein consists one of the innumerable excellences of
Shakspeare. Every sentence is as full of matter as my saddle-bags of
medicine. Why, I will engage to pick out as many meanings in each as
there are plums in a pudding. But, friend, I am sure you must have a
copy. Let me see it."
"I know little of these vanities," replied Holden. "In my giddy youth,
I drank such follies, even as the ass sucketh up the east wind. But
it pleased the Lord to open mine eyes. In thoughts from the visions of
the night," he continued--and his eyes shone brighter, and his stature
seemed to increase--"when deep sleep falleth on men, fear came upon me
and trembling, which made all my bones to shake. Then a vision passed
before me, and the hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still, but
I could not discern the form thereof: an image was before mine
eyes--there was silence, and then I heard a voice saying, 'Behold,
I come quickly; watch and pray, for thou knowest not the day nor the
hour!' I was not disobedient to the heavenly warning, and thenceforth
the pomps and vanities of the world have been as the dust beneath my
feet."
This was not the first time that the doctor heard the Recluse speak of
his peculiar opinions; but, although always ready to avow and dilate
upon them when others were willing to listen, he had uniformly
manifested an unwillingness to allude to himself or the incidents of
his life. Whenever, heretofore, as sometimes happened, the curiosity
of his auditors led the conversation in that direction, he had
invariably evaded all hints and repulsed every inquiry. But his mood
seemed different to-day. Elmer was a friend whom Holden highly prized,
and he could therefore speak the more freely in his presence; but this
is not sufficient to account for the dropping of his reserve. We know
no other explanation than that there are times when the heart of every
one is opened, and longs to unburden itself, and this was one of them
that unsealed the lips of the Solitary.
"Is it long since the revelation?" inquired the doctor.
"Too long," said Holden, "did I wander in the paths of sin, and
in forgetfulness of my God, and my youth was wasted in that which
satisfieth not, neither doth it profit. My heart was very hard, and it
rose up in rebellion against the Lord. Then it pleased Him (blessed be
His holy name) to bray me in the mortar of affliction, and to crush
me between the upper and the nether millstone. Yet I heeded not; and,
like Nebuchadnezzar, my mind was hardened in pride, continually. Then,
as the King of Babylon was driven forth from the sons of men, and his
heart made like the beasts', and his dwelling was with the wild asses,
and they fed him with grass, like oxen, and his body was wet with
the dew of heaven, even so did the Spirit drive me forth into the
tabernacles of the wild men of the forest and the prairie, and I
sojourned with them many days. But He doth not always chide, neither
keepeth He His anger for ever. In His own good time, He snatched me
from the fiery furnace, and bade me here wait for His salvation; and
here, years, long years, have I looked for His promise. O, Lord, how
long!"
The doctor's question was unanswered, either because Holden forgot
it, in his excitement, or that he was incapable of giving any accurate
account of the passage of time. But thus much the doctor could gather
from his incoherent account, that, at some period of his life, he
had suffered a great calamity, which had affected his reason. In this
condition, he had probably joined the Indians, and passed several
years among them, and afterwards, upon a partial restoration of
intellect, adopted the wild notions he professed. What had passed
during those years, was a secret known only to himself, if, indeed,
the events had not disappeared from his memory.
"You have suffered bitterly," said the doctor.
"Talk not of suffering," exclaimed Holden. "I reckon all that man can
endure as not to be compared with the crown of glory that awaits him
who shall gain entrance into the Kingdom. What is this speck we call
life? Mark," he continued, taking up a pebble and dropping it into the
water, "it is like the bubble that rises to burst, or the sound of my
voice that dies as soon away. Thereon waste I not a thought, except to
prepare me for the coming of my Lord."
"You think, then, this solitary life the best preparation you can make
for the next?"
"Yes," said Holden; "I work not my own will. Can the clay say to the
potter, what doest thou? Behold, I am in the hand of One wiser and
mightier than I. Nor hath he left me without duties to perform. I am
one crying in the wilderness, and though the people heed not, yet must
the faithful witness cry. I have a work to perform, and how is my soul
straitened until it be done? Canst thou not thyself see, by what
hath happened to-day, some reason why the solitary is upon his lonely
island? Had he loved the crowded haunts of men, a fellow-being had,
perhaps, perished."
The allusion to the occurrence of the morning recalled the doctor's
attention to the purpose for which he had left the chamber, and which
he had forgotten, in listening to the talk of the enthusiast. He
now directed the conversation to the subject of the wound, and heard
Holden's account. He became convinced, both from his statement, and
from a few words Pownal himself had dropped, as well as from the sight
of the gun which Holden had picked up, and found just discharged, that
the wounding was accidental, and occasioned by the young man's own
fowling-piece. Having satisfied himself on this point, the doctor,
with his companion, re-entered the hut. It was only to give a few
parting directions to Bernard, to enjoin quiet upon his patient, and
to take leave of him, which he did, in the words of his favorite--
"Fare thee well!
The elements be kind to thee, and make
Thy spirits all of comfort."