with terrible vividness. A train of woes--real woes,--so long she could
not see the end of it, marched in solemn procession before her. There
was her child in rags, her husband a homeless, idle, degraded sot.
There was the gaunt form of Hunger, the glaring eyes of the demons of
crime--there was every thing there, from which the heart of woman would
instinctively shrink.
Thomas rose next morning and ate his breakfast in silence--the silence
which shame seemed to impose upon him. He was about to leave his house
for his workshop, when Mary spoke.
“Thomas,” said she, in the subdued tones of anguish, while a flood of
tears rained down her wan cheek.
He looked at her, as though he had already divined what she meant to
say.
“Thomas, you can’t think how unhappy I was last night, when you
were--when you came home.”
“Well, what’s the matter now?” answered Thomas, sullenly.
“O, Thomas, last night!”
“Well, what of it?”
Mary was amazed that no appearance of contrition mitigated his flagrant
error.
“You don’t come home in the evening now.”
“No.”
“But you will come to-night, Thomas?”
“Perhaps I will.”
“Nay, you _will_?”
“What for?”
“Come for my sake, Thomas.”
“Your sake! Well, that _is_ a good one,” replied he, coarsely.
Mary was shocked.
“Last night, you were--were----” she could say no more.
“Yes, I _was_.”
“You were----”
“Drunk! Out with it.”
“O, Thomas!”
“Well?”
“What misery is in store for us!”
“Can’t help it.”
“Nay, Thomas, promise that you will not----”
“Get drunk,” laughed Thomas.
“Do not again.”
“Can’t promise.”
“O God! has it come to this!”
“Fact!”
Mary threw herself into a chair, and wept as though her heart would
break. The sight seemed to move the husband, who was not yet lost in
transgression. A tear stole into his eye and he bent over her and took
her hand.
“Mary, I have sinned.”
“You will not again?” said she, eagerly.
“But, Mary, is there no fault on your part?”
“My part?”
“My home is hateful to me. Even the presence of that sleeping, innocent
child removes not the curse which seems to hang over it.”
“Why, Thomas, what do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Have I not often reasoned with you?”
“O God!” exclaimed Mary, burying her face between her hands, conscious
that the misery which menaced her was of her own seeking.
“I never will complain of anything again as long as I live!” she
continued.
“Ah, Mary, I have often heard you say so before.”
“Trust me, this time, Thomas.”
“I will, Mary.”
“Come home to-night; you shall find me all that you could wish.”
“Bless you, Mary. I trust for your sake as well as my own, and for the
sake of our own dear boy, that you may be true to your resolution.”
“I will, Thomas,” replied she, with a gathering smile, as her husband
kissed her.
“And I promise never again to taste the fatal cup. You shall be
the guardian of this my solemn pledge; for in no way can you more
effectually secure the keeping of my promise, than by observing your
own--in short, by making home happy.”
Again the husband kissed her, and then went to his work.
_CHAPTER III._
A drunkard’s wife! This was a real woe. What were all her little
vexations compared with it? Mary’s resolution was a firm one, and in
her earnestness to observe it, she knelt and prayed for strength from
above to enable her to be equal to the duty before her.
Last night a terrible fate had menaced her. The lot of a drunkard’s
wife--the most appalling woe that can overtake a woman--had threatened
to be her portion. The sombre cloud had risen, and her destiny was in
her own hands.
She knew her husband well enough to be satisfied that his pledge would
be held sacred--that, till she drove him from his home by her unamiable
peculiarity, he would be true to the words he had spoken.
Grumbling is only a habit. It may even have a root in the natural
temperament of the individual; but it is not an incurable disease. Mary
felt that happiness here and hereafter depended upon her fidelity to
the promise she had made--that a single complaining word would be like
a match placed near the magazine--and another word would involve her in
hopeless ruin.
But she had sense enough to know, and she strove to feel that it were
useless to avoid the word, while the disposition existed. It were
useless to whitewash a sepulchre--it is still “full of dead men’s
bones.” She determined to perform a radical cure. She resolved to _be_
contented, and then the hasty word would not be spoken.
She went about her daily duties with a feeling that a mountain had been
removed from her heart. She was cheerful--happy--happy to feel that it
was in her power to avert the terrible catastrophe which had menaced
her--that she could avoid the yawning abyss that was before her.
All her trials and vexations dwindled into trifles compared with the
fate which last night had been so vividly presented to her imagination,
and the comparison made her happy.
Punctual to his accustomed hour, Thomas came home. He had not drank any
thing, and he appeared cheerful and happy. She met him with a smiling
face, and never mentioned a word of the difficulty that had beset her.
She had even been so far as to draw a pail of water herself, and bring
up a hod of coal; but she said nothing about it.
They were happy again; but perhaps it was as much the effect in the
contrast as the actual change in the circumstances. Thomas fondled
little Bobby on his knees, and undressed and put him to bed himself.
Mary was delighted, and from her soul she prayed that her own weakness
might not dissolve the blissful picture of domestic happiness their
home at that moment presented.
A year passed by. Thomas was true to his vow, and Mary to hers.
Whenever things went wrong with her, and the old spirit rose in her
heart, her husband had only to say--
“You absolve me from my oath, Mary?” and she became gentle and cheerful
in an instant.
Those words were a charm. That solemn promise broken, and again the
poorhouse, the penitentiary, the bloated father, the ragged child, the
long procession of woes rose in her mind, and she was true to herself.
But she really improved her disposition. The habit was radically cured.
The home of Thomas Butler is no more a “world of trouble;” it is “home,
sweet home”--the abode of the angel of contentment, the dwelling-place
of truth and love, and the most effectual preventive of the curse of
drunkenness.
Our story is not all a story--it is true to the letter. We beg the
complaining wife to ask herself if she is not making for her husband
a path to the drunkard’s grave--for herself and her children a bed of
thorns.
“SEND FOR THE DOCTOR.”
_CHAPTER I._
My excellent old uncle Jesse--peace to his ashes!--used to tell me that
every thing depended on the “bringing up;” and a little experience in
this world of strange men and things--but a very good world, for all
that--has convinced me that he was considerably more than half right.
[Illustration]
Some people have learned to depend upon themselves in the hour of
peril. The energy, firmness, and decision of their own characters are
their sword, shield, and steed when
“Giant danger threatening stands.”
Their fortress is within themselves. They have been taught by their
instructors or by their circumstances to rely upon their own strength.
Others are weak, nervous and vacillating in the presence of danger,
throwing the burden of their salvation on the shoulders of the first
“Good Samaritan” who approaches them. Their tower of strength is
the doctor, the minister, the lawyer, or some sympathizing friend.
They have never been taught, either by their instructors or their
circumstances, to depend upon their own resources, moral, mental, and
physical, for guidance and support.
If the house takes fire, one puts it out; but another runs to the
church and rings the bell for his neighbors. If Tommy wheezes, papa,
who has no confidence in himself, sends for the doctor; while mamma,
who has been taught from childhood to think and act for herself, is in
favor of giving the little fellow “an onion and a little goose oil.”
But extremes are always silly or dangerous, as the case may be. People
laugh at papa, because he is so ridiculously timid; and mamma delays
sending for the physician till Tommy is almost dead with the croup.
One lets his house burn down while he is summoning his friends to help
him put it out; and another’s is destroyed because he attempted to put
it out alone, when he actually needed the assistance of his neighbors.
After all, it requires considerable judgment to get along in the world.
We have no intention of writing a homily on the proper conduct of men
and women in connection with the casualties of life. Whether or not it
be expedient to send for the doctor when the baby sneezes, we leave
to the judgment of the parties immediately interested. We have a story
to tell, which illustrates both sides of the question; and either
disputant in the important controversy is at liberty to appropriate the
moral to sustain his or her cherished theory.
Millbrook is a manufacturing village, and the most important person
there, at the time of which we write, was Mr. Milton Barrington, who,
to use the metaphorical language of the villagers, “run” the principal
mill. Though quite a young man, he had amassed a handsome fortune, and
by his enterprise, public spirit, and general character as a person of
integrity and fairness, had attained the most influential position in
the village. People looked to him for advice and assistance in their
extremity, and no one ever thought of making a motion in town meeting
to build a new school house, lay out a road, or of making any important
movement, until he had been consulted. The people were mainly on his
side in politics, religion, and philosophy. Whatever he did, he was
pretty sure to have plenty of imitators.
Mr. Barrington had spent the flower of his manhood in the pursuit of
wealth; and the idea of getting married did not occur to him till he
had reached his thirtieth year. Probably he would not have thought of
such a thing then, if a pretty and otherwise eligible young lady had
not at that time crossed his path, reminding him of his duty in the
premises.
Three years after, we find him in the full enjoyment of all the
blessings of the connubial state, and the father of a pretty little boy
just eighteen months old. Mr. Barrington was the happiest of fathers,
and to use grandma’s enthusiastic expression, “he set his life by that
boy.”
It was a cold night in December. Mr. Barrington was reading Mrs. Stowe’s
Sunny Memories to his wife, while little Charley lay asleep in his crib
beside them.
The clock struck ten, and as the father laid aside the book, Charley
coughed rather hoarsely, and waking up, began to scream most lustily.
Mrs. Barrington took him up and tried to quiet him; but he obstinately
refused to be quieted.
Mr. Barrington was alarmed. Charley was not accustomed to have such
freaks.
“What do you think ails him?” asked he of his wife.
“He has got a little cold, probably.”
“Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?” continued Mr.
Barrington, nervously.
“Not the least need of it.”
“But the croup, my dear?”
“That cough was nothing like the croup.”
Mr. Barrington was comforted by this assurance, and in a little while,
Charley got tired of crying, and went to sleep again.
The child was carried up stairs, and they retired. But Mr. Barrington
was not wholly satisfied. The croup was so sudden and so fatal that the
cough he had heard seemed to haunt his imagination. He could not go
to sleep for thinking of it. He trembled at the thought of losing the
darling little one. He had passed almost into a confirmed old bachelor
before his marriage, and the diseases of children had never received
much consideration from him. He had heard people tell how dreadful
the croup was, and only a week before the only child of one of his
overseers had died with it, after an illness of scarcely twelve hours.
The clock on the village church struck one, and he was still awake. His
wife slept soundly. She was better acquainted with the nature of the
dreadful disease, and had felt no alarm when the child coughed.
While he was thus thinking of what might possibly happen, Charley
coughed again, and jumping up in the bed, began to scream as he had in
the evening.
Mrs. Barrington took him in her arms.
“Did you hear him cough?” asked the trembling father.
“I did not. His screams awoke me.”
“Don’t he breathe hard? Are you sure he has not got the croup?”
“I do not think he has. He seems to breathe freely,” replied Mrs.
Barrington. “He is a little hoarse, but I do not think it is any thing
serious.”
“I am afraid it is. Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?”
“There is no occasion to do so.”
“I am really alarmed about him.”
“Do as you wish; though I think it is only a little cold.”
Mr. Barrington was satisfied it was the croup, and the consent of his
wife, thus doubtfully given, was all he required. The “man of all work”
was called up and despatched for Dr. Broadbeam, with a request that the
physician would come with all possible haste.
_CHAPTER II._
Mrs. Barrington used all her maternal arts to quiet the little
patient. He did not appear to suffer any pain, and his respiration
was apparently as free as ever. In a short time, her efforts were
successful, and Charley sunk away into a peaceful slumber.
It was half an hour before Dr. Broadbeam arrived. It was possible
he had used all convenient despatch in waiting upon his influential
patron; but being a man of two hundred pounds, his swiftest movements
were necessarily slow.
Dr. Broadbeam had the reputation of being a very skilful physician; but
unfortunately he had such a “grouty” way of dealing with his patients
and patrons, that his popularity in Millbrook was on the decline.
People did not like to be “snapped up” when they were sick; and the
only circumstance that enabled Dr. Broadbeam to retain even a moiety
of the practice of the village, was the fact that Mr. Barrington still
employed him.
At the suggestion of a small portion of the population, who had the
hardihood to break away from Mr. Barrington’s lead, a young physician
of good parts, and with an easy and pleasing address, had been induced
to locate himself in the village. Dr. Broadbeam raved like a madman
at the advent of the interloper, stigmatized him as a quack, and
obstinately refused even to be civil to him. But when a year in the
young doctor’s professional experience had passed away without sensibly
augmenting his practice, he condescended to laugh at him, and call him
a fool. The crusty old leech felt that he could have every thing his
own way; that his skill and experience were amply sufficient to offset
his morose address and sour temper.
To get out of a warm bed in the middle of a cold December night, is
never agreeable to any body, unless perchance the house be on fire; and
young gentlemen who aspire to the honors of the medical craft ought to
think of this before they choose the profession.
To Dr. Broadbeam night duty was especially unpleasant. He was rather
indolent and luxurious in his habits, and always made it a rule to
believe that poor folks could wait till morning before they had the
doctor. But when Mr. Barrington summoned him, why, it was quite another
affair.
“What’s the matter with the child?” growled Dr. Broadbeam, as he
entered the apartment.
“I don’t know, doctor, but I am very much afraid of the croup,” replied
Mr. Barrington, handing the physician a chair.
“Humph!”
“The croup prevails to some extent in the village, you are aware,”
added the nervous father.
“Always does at this season of the year,” replied the doctor, bending
over the child to listen to his respiration.
“Does he breathe naturally, doctor?” asked Mrs. Barrington, to whom her
husband’s alarm had to some extent communicated itself.
“Naturally?” sneered the physician. “Nothing under the sun ails the
child.”
“What made him cry so, doctor?” inquired Mrs. Barrington.
“Cry so, madam? cry so! You gave him too much supper, madam; and I
am tumbled out of my bed to see a child that has the stomach ache!”
growled the doctor, enraged when he thought of the comfortable bed
which he had been so unceremoniously compelled to leave.
“But his cough, doctor?” said Mr. Barrington, controlling his
indignation at the rudeness of the physician.
“Mr. Barrington, you are a fool!” exclaimed Dr. Broadbeam, as he
violently jammed his hat upon his head. “Do you think I am to leave my
bed on a cold night like this, whenever your baby sneezes? Humph!”
“You are a physician, are you not?” asked Mr. Barrington.
He was angry; but keeping down his indignation, he put the question
with tolerable calmness.
“A physician! Of course I am; but is that any reason why I should be
turned out in the dead of the night for nothing at all?” replied the
enraged leech.
“You chose your own profession.”
“What if I did?”
“What is your charge for a night visit?”
“Five dollars, sir! Five dollars!” answered the doctor, maliciously.
“And you believe that I am able to pay it?”
“I do, or I would not have come.”
“That is enough, sir; if I am content to pay five dollars for the
assurance of a physician that nothing ails my child, I take it that I
am at liberty to do so.”
“Humph!”
“When I send for a physician, I consider it a business transaction. He
gives me his advice for the money I pay him. If his conduct entitles
him to be cherished as a friend--as an angel sent with healing balm for
the soul as well as the body,”--and Mr. Barrington looked sternly at
the doctor,--“I cheerfully accord him his due.”
“Well, sir!”
“If I send for my millwright, I do not leave it optional with him to
determine whether I need him or not. If he does not choose to come,
there are other millwrights in the state.”
“Do you compare a physician to a millwright?” sneered the doctor.
“If I send for my millwright to come and tell me whether my water
wheel needs repairs, he comes; he examines it; perhaps he decides that
nothing is the matter with it, and that I ought to have known that it
was perfectly sound. If he should reproach me for sending for him, I
should call him no business man. I pay him for his time, though he lift
not an axe.”
“Humph!”
“It is a great satisfaction to me to know that nothing ails my child. I
am able and willing to pay for that assurance.”
“Pay! Do you take me for a hireling?” exclaimed the doctor, with a
fresh outbreak of anger, as he abruptly turned on his heel and left the
chamber.
_CHAPTER III._
On the 1st of January, Dr. Broadbeam’s bill for professional services,
amounting to over two hundred dollars, was presented to Mr. Barrington,
and was promptly paid. He was not one of that numerous and highly
respectable class of people who make it a point to grumble at doctor’s
bills.
The manufacturer was a peaceful, prudent man, not disposed to stir
up strife in the neighborhood; so he kept silent in regard to his
unpleasant interview with the physician.
About a month after, Mr. Barrington was roused from his slumbers at
midnight by the sound of an ominous cough from Charley. But this time
it did not awake the little fellow. The fond father was still fearful
of the croup; yet the child slept so soundly that his fears subsided,
and he was just dropping asleep again when the cough was repeated.
In a few minutes the child awoke, and his respiration began to grow
difficult.
“What do you think?” asked he of his wife.
“He is a little croupy; but I do not think there is any occasion to
be alarmed. I will give him the ‘Hive Sirup,’ which I doubt not will
immediately relieve him.”
Mr. Barrington got up and brought the sirup. A dose was given, and the
parents waited with anxiety the effect.
An hour elapsed, and the child was no better.
“Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?” said Mr. Barrington.
“No, I can get along very well.”
“But the croup; hasn’t he got it?”
“He has a croupy cough, which may lead to croup, if it is not attended
to,” replied Mrs. Barrington, giving the little sufferer another
spoonful of the sirup.
Two hours more passed away, and instead of getting better, the child
grew worse every minute. But Mrs. Barrington did not like to send for
the doctor. In the family of her father, a physician had rarely ever
been called, and she had come to regard the faculty with something like
contempt.
“He grows worse,” said Mr. Barrington, beginning to lose confidence in
the efficacy of his wife’s treatment.
“The medicine has not had time to produce its effect yet,” replied Mrs.
Barrington. “He will begin to grow better soon.”
“I think we had better send for the doctor,” added the anxious father.
“It may be too late in the morning.”
“I do not want any more fuss with the doctor. The last time he came, he
made me so nervous that it took me a week to get over it.”
“We will not have Dr. Broadbeam, then.”
“He will be better soon.”
“Do not delay it too long.”
Another hour elapsed, and still the little sufferer was no better. His
breathing was extremely difficult, and the cough was more frequent and
hard. The mother’s remedy had apparently produced no effect whatever,
and she began to be alarmed herself.
“Perhaps you had better send for the doctor,” said she.
“Dr. Broadbeam?”
“I don’t know.”
“I determined, when I paid his last bill, never to employ him again.”
“Dr. Slender has been very successful in croup,” added Mrs. Barrington,
“and I should feel just as much confidence in him as in Dr. Broadbeam.”
“I will send for him.”
In less than fifteen minutes after the messenger left the house, the
young physician arrived. Of course he was not a little astonished to be
roused from his bed by a summons from the “leading man of the village;”
but he had chosen his profession, and considered it a duty to go
whenever and wherever he was called.
Dr. Slender examined the child.
“You should have procured a physician before,” said he, shaking his
head ominously.
Mr. Barrington’s heart rose to his throat. His frame trembled, and he
was so nervous that he was forced to cling to the bedpost for support.
“Is he dangerous, doctor?” asked he.
“Three hours ago, it would not have been a bad case. I doubt if he can
be saved now. But there is no time to be lost. Bring me some cold water
and some linen cloths.”
Dr. Slender gave the child a portion of medicine, and applied himself
with so much energy to the means of effecting a cure, that the parents
were inspired with hope, and felt entire confidence in his skill.
Morning dawned upon the little patient, and he was apparently in the
last stages of the fell disease. Dr. Slender still remained by him, and
was now adopting the last resort known to the physician. The agony of
the parents can be conceived by those who have watched over the death
bed of a cherished little one, but it cannot be described.
Providence smiled upon the young physician, and he had the
inexpressible satisfaction, before noon, of declaring that the child
would recover. A pæan of praise rose from the grateful hearts of the
devoted parents. In a few days little Charley was as well as ever, and
the reputation of Dr. Slender was made.
The star of Dr. Broadbeam had set. The young physician in a few months
secured the entire practice of the place. The potent influence of Mr.
Barrington was all he needed to insure his success. He was polite and
affable in his professional intercourse with his patients, and the
contrast between him and his crusty rival was so striking, that every
body wondered how they had been able to endure the latter.
Dr. Broadbeam was compelled to “leave town.” Whether or not he has
learned that a decent deportment towards his patients is expedient, we
are unable to say. But we infer that he has, from the fact that, unable
to establish himself again in practice, he turned his attention to the
manufacture and sale of patent medicine; and “Broadbeam’s Celebrated
Chinese Antibilious Pill” are as popular as advertising and false
certificates can make them.
Mr. Barrington has decided that it is best to send for the doctor when
the baby sneezes. Dr. Slender is always willing to come when he is sent
for, and laughingly maintains that he is just as well satisfied to
pocket his fee for saying nothing ails the baby, as for giving it an
emetic.
“FOUR KINDS OF CAKE.”
_CHAPTER I._
“It is folly, wife!” exclaimed Mr. Jotham Somes, a matter-of-fact,
plain-spoken sort of man, to his better half. “There you have got
no less than four kinds of cake, three kinds of pies, two kinds of
preserves, to say nothing of knicknacks and gimcracks.”