Part 8

But after all, as I sat meditating on the ups and downs of life during the evening of the funeral, the question arose in my mind, is all safe? May not some unfledged Galens remove the body for the purpose of dissection?--Worse than all, may not some malignant rival have already meditated a similar expedition? The more I reflected on this matter and its probable consequences, the more my fears increased, till at last they became too great for my frail tenement. There was at this period a boarder in my family, one Job Sparrow, who having spent about thirty years of his pilgrimage in the "singing of anthems," concluded at length to devote the residue thereof to the study of the human frame, to which he was the more inclined, probably, as he could have the benefit of my deep investigations. His outward man, though somewhat ungainly, was exceedingly muscular, and he had a firmness of nerve which would make him willingly engage in any enterprise that would aid him in his calling. Conducting him to my sanctum or study, a retired chamber in my domicil, "Job," I remarked, "I have long noticed your engagedness in the healing art, and I have lamented my inability of late to further your progress in the study of anatomy from the difficulty of procuring subjects. An opportunity, however, is at length afforded, and I shall not fail to embrace it though at the sacrifice of my best feelings. The subject I mean, is the lamented Mrs. Sykes. Bring her remains at night to this chamber, and I with my venerable friend Dr. Grizzle will exhibit what, though often described, are seldom visible, those wonderful absorbents, the _lacteals_.--It is only in very recent subjects, my dear Job, that it is possible to point them out." My pupil grinned complacently at this manifestation of kindly feelings towards him in one so much his superior, and hastened to prepare himself for the expedition. It was about nine of the clock when the venerable Dr. Grizzle, whom I had notified of my intended operations through Job, came stealthily in. Dr. Grizzle, though from his appearance one would conclude that he was about to "shuffle off this mortal coil," was a _rara avis_ as to his knowledge of the corporeal functions. There were certain gainsayers, indeed, who asserted that his intellectual candle was just glimmering in its socket; but it will show to a demonstration how little such statements are to be regarded when I assert that the like slanders had been thrown out touching my own person. The profound Grizzle, above such malignant feelings, always coincided with my own opinion, both as to the nature of the disease we were called to counteract, and as to the mode of treatment; and so highly did I value him, that he was the only one whom I called to a consultation when that course was deemed expedient. We had prepared our instruments and were refreshing our minds with the pages of Chesselden, a luminous writer, when to my great satisfaction the signal of my pupil was heard below. Hitherto our labors seemed to have been blest; but a difficulty occurred in this stage of our progress which threatened not only to render these labors useless, but to retard, if I may so say, the advance of anatomical science. It was this; the stairway was uncommonly narrow, and the lamented Mrs. Sykes was uncommonly large. As it was impossible, then, for Job to pass up at the same time with the defunct, it was settled after mature deliberation, that he and myself, should occupy a post at each extreme, while Grizzle assisted near the _lumbar_ region. "Now," cried Job, "heave together;" but the words were hardly uttered, when a shreak from Grizzle, paralized our exertions. Our muscular efforts had wedged my venerable friend so completely between Mrs. Sykes and the wall, that his lungs wheezed like a pair of decayed bellows; and had it not been for the Herculean strength of Job, who rushed as it were _in medias res_, the number of the dead would have equalled that of the living. At length, after repeated trials, we effected, as I facetiously remarked, our "passage of the Alps;" an historical allusion which tended much to the divertisement of Grizzle and obliterated in no small measure, the memory of his recent peril. And now, having directed Job to go down and secure the door, Grizzle and myself advanced to remove the bandages that confined her arms, previous to dissection. But scarcely was the work accomplished when a sepulchral groan burst from the defunct, the eyes glared, and the loosened arm was slowly lifted from the body. That I am not of that class who can be charged with any thing like timidity, is, I think well proved by my consenting to act for several years as regimental surgeon in our militia, a post undoubtedly of danger. But I must concede that at this unexpected movement, both Grizzle and myself were somewhat agitated. From the table to the stair-way, we leaped, as it were by instinct, and with a velocity at which even now I greatly marvel. This sudden evidence of vitality in my lamented friend, or I might say rather an unwillingness to be found alone with her in such a peculiar situation, also induced me to prevent if possible the retreat of Grizzle, and I fastened with some degree of violence upon his projecting queue. It was fortunate, in so far as regarded Grizzle, that art in this instance had supplanted nature. His wig, of which the queue formed no inconsiderable portion, was all that my hand retained. Had it been otherwise, such was the tenacity of my grasp on the one hand, and such his momentum on the other, that Grizzle must have left the natural ornament of his cerebrum, while I, though unjustly, must have been charged with imitating our heathenish Aborigines. As it was, his bald pate shot out from beneath it with the velocity of a discharged ball; nor was the similitude to that engine of carnage at all lessened when I heard its rebounds upon the stairs. How long I remained overwhelmed by the wonderful scenes which I had just witnessed, I cannot tell; but on recovering, I found that Mrs. Sykes had been removed to my best chamber, and Job and Mrs. Tonic both busily engaged about her person. They had, as I afterwards ascertained, by bathing her feet and rubbing her with hot flannels, wrought a change almost miraculous; and the effects of the laudanum having happily subsided she appeared, when I entered, as in her pristine state. At that moment they were about administering a composing draught, which undoubtedly she needed, having received several severe contusions on the stairway in our endeavors to extricate Grizzle. But rushing forward, I exclaimed, "thanks to Heaven that I again see that cherished face! thanks that I have been the instrument under Providence of restoring to society its brightest ornament! Be composed, my dear Mrs. Sykes, ask no questions to night, unless you would frustrate all my labors." Then presenting to her lips an opiate, in a short time I had the satisfaction of seeing her sink into a tranquil slumber.

As I considered it all important that the matter should be kept a profound secret till I had arranged my plans; and as Mrs. Tonic had in a remarkable degree that propensity which distinguishes woman--I was under the necessity of making her privy to the whole transaction; trusting that the probable ruin to my reputation consequent on an exposure would effectually bridle her unruly member. My venerable friend too, I invited for a few days to my own mansion lest the bruises he received during his _exodus_ from the dissecting room might have deprived him of his customary caution. The last and most difficult step was to prepare the mind of Mrs. Sykes, who was yet _in nubibus_ as to her new location. With great caution I gradually unfolded the strange event that had just transpired,--her sudden apparent death, the alarm of the village touching the _miasma_, and the consequent sudden interment. 'Your exit, my dear Mrs. Sykes,' I continued, 'seemed like a dream--I could not realize it. Such an irreparable loss! I thought of all the remedies that had been applied in such cases. Had any thing been omitted that had a tendency to increase the circulation of the radical fluid! There was the Galvanic battery,--it had been entirely overlooked, and yet what wonders it had performed! No sooner had this occurred to my mind than I was impressed with the conviction that you were to revisit this mundane sphere, and that I was the chosen instrument to enkindle the vital spark. No time was lost in obeying this mysterious impulse. The grave was opened, the battery was applied _secundem artem_--and the result is the restoration to society of our beloved Mrs. Sykes.' In proportion to her horror at the idea, that she must have rested from her labors but for my skill, was her gratitude for this timely rescue. She fell on my neck and clung like one demented, till a gathering frown on the face of my spouse warned me of the necessity of repelling her embraces. Mrs. Sykes was now desirous of returning immediately home, to restore as it were to life her bereaved consort, who was no doubt mourning at his desolation, and refusing to be comforted. But here I felt it my duty to interpose. 'My dear Mrs. Sykes,' said I, 'your return at this moment would overwhelm him. The sudden change from the lowest depths of woe to a state of ecstacy, would consign him to the tenement you have just quitted. No! this extraordinary Providence must be gradually unfolded.' She yielded at last to my sage councils and consented to wait till the violence of his grief had somewhat abated, and his mind had become sufficiently tranquil to hear that tale which I was cautiously to relate. On the following day however, her anxiety to return had risen to a high pitch, and truly by evening it was beyond my control. She was firm in the belief that I could make the disclosure without essential injury to the Deacon; 'besides,' as she remarked, 'there was no knowing how much waste there had been in the kitchen.' It was settled at last that I should immediately walk over to the Deacon's, and by a judicious train of reflection, for which I was admirably fitted, prepare the way for this joyous meeting. When I arrived at the house of mourning, though perhaps the last person in the world entitled to the name of evesdropper, yet as my eye was somewhat askance as I passed the window, I observed a spectacle that for a time arrested my footsteps. There sat the Deacon, recounting probably the virtues of the deceased partner, and there, not far apart, sat the widow Dobble sympathizing in his sorrows. It struck me that Deacon Sykes was not ungrateful for her consolatory efforts; for he took her hand with a gentle pressure and held it to his bosom. Perhaps it was the unusual mode of dress now exhibited by the widow Dobble, that led him to this act; for she was decked out in Mrs. Sykes's best frilled cap, and such is the waywardness of fancy, he might for the moment have imagined that his help-mate was beside him. Be that as it may, while I was thus complacently regarding this interchange of friendly feelings, the cry of '_you vile hussy_' suddenly rang in my very ear, and the next instant, the door having been burst open, who should stand before the astonished couple but the veritable Mrs. Sykes. The Deacon leaped as if touched in the _pericardium_, and essayed to gain the door; but in his transit his knees denied their office, and he sank gibbering as his hand was upon the latch. As to the terrified widow Dobble, I might say with Virgilius, _steteruntque comae_, her _combs_ stood up; for the frilled cap was displaced with no little violence, and with an agonizing shriek she fell, apparently _in articulo mortis_, on the body of the Deacon. What a lamentable scene! and all in consequence of the rashness and imprudence of Mrs. Sykes. No sooner had I left my own domicil than Mrs. Sykes, regardless of my admonitions, resolved on following my steps, and was actually peeping over my shoulder at the moment the Deacon's hand came in contact with the widow Dobble's. It was truly fortunate for all concerned that a distinguished member of the faculty was near at this dreadful crisis. In ordinary hands nothing could have prevented a quietus. Their spirits were taking wing, and it was only by extraordinary skill that I effected what lawyer Snoodles said was a complete 'stoppage _in transitu_.' I regret to state that this was my last visit to Deacon Sykes's. Unmindful of my services in resuscitating Mrs. Sykes, he remarked that my neglect to prepare him for the exceeding joy that was in store, had so far shattered his nervous system that his usefulness was over; and in fine, had built up between us a wall of separation not to be broken down. I always opined, however, and of this opinion was Mrs. Tonic, that the Deacon's coldness arose in part from an incipient warmth for Mrs. Dobble, which was thus checked in its first stages. It was even hinted that on her departure, which took place immediately, he manifested less of resignation than at the burial of Mrs. Sykes. The coldness of the widow Dobble towards me, certainly unmerited, was also no less apparent, till I brought about what I had much at heart, viz: a match between her and Major Popkin. He was a discreet, forehanded man, a Representative to our General Court, and kept the Variety Store in that part of our town that was named in honor of him, 'Popkins's Corner.'[3]

FOOTNOTE:

[3] From the papers of Dr. Tonic, recently brought to light.

OLD AND YOUNG.

By James Furbish.

Give me ripe fruit with the green-- Fresh leaves mingling with the sear; As in tropic climes are seen Blending through the deathless year.

I am alarmed at the changes which are taking place in society. While many are lauding the _spirit of the age_ and holding up to my gaze the picture of forth-coming improvements--opening broad and charming vistas into the almost _present future_ of mental and moral perfection, I cannot help casting a lingering look upon the past. Time was when old age and infancy, manhood and youth, walked the path of life together; when the strength of young limbs aided the feebleness of the old, and the joyousness of youth enlivened the gravity of age. But the son has now left the father to totter on alone, and the daughter has outstripped the mother in the race. Beauty and strength have separated from decrepitude and weakness. The vine has uncoiled from its natural support, and the ivy has ceased to entwine the oak.

There is an increasing disposition on the part of the young and the old to classify their pleasures according to their age. Those pastimes which used to be enjoyed by both together, are now separated. This is an evil of too serious a character to pass unfelt, unlamented or unrebuked. It is easy to refer back to days when parents were more happy with their children, and children more honorable and useful to parents than at present. It is not long since the old and the young were to be seen together in the blithesome dance and the merry play. And why this change? Why do we find that, within a few years, the old have abandoned amusements to the young? Is it that they think their children can profit more by their amusements than if they were present? If this be the impression it is to be regretted. No course could they possibly adopt so injurious to the character of their children. For youth need the direction and the advice of age, and age requires the exhilaration and cheerfulness of youth. How many lonely evenings would be enlivened--how many dark visions of the future would be dissipated, and how many hours of gloom and despondency would be put to flight, if fathers would keep pace with their sons, and mothers with their daughters, in the innocent pleasures of life. Here, as it appears to me, is the grand secret of happiness for the young and the old. For the old, who are too apt to dwell on the glories of the past and to see nothing that is lovely in the present; and for the young, who throw too strong and gaudy a light upon the present and the future. Nature did not so intend it. So long as there is life, she intended we should innocently enjoy it. And the barrier which has, by some unaccountable mishap, been thrown between the young and the old is, therefore, greatly to be lamented. But how shall it be removed? How shall we get back again to the good old times of the merry husking, the joyous dance, the happy commingling in the same company, of the priest and his deacon, the father and his child, the husband and his wife?

It would not be difficult to trace directly to the discontinuance of the practice of joining with the young in their amusements, the great increase of youthful dissipation of every description. By being removed from the advice, restraint and example of the old and experienced, they have, by degrees, fallen into usages which were almost unknown in years gone by. When accompanied by parents, the hours of pleasure were seasonable. Daughters were under the inspection of mothers, and sons were guided by the wisdom of fathers. Homes were happier, the community more virtuous, and the world at large a gainer by such judicious customs. We now hear the complaint that sons have gone astray, that daughters have behaved indiscreetly, and that families have been disgraced. But can there be a doubt, if the practice were general of accompanying our children in those pastimes in which they ought to be reasonably indulged, that many of these evils would be prevented? Here then must begin the reform. Complain not that your son is out late, if you might have been with him to bring him to your fire-side at a seasonable hour. Complain not that your daughter has formed an unsuitable or untimely connexion, if a mother's care might have avoided the evil. Youth _will_ go astray without the protection of age. And it is a crying sin that these old-fashioned moral restraints have been removed. What, I ask, can be your object in thus leaving your children to their own direction? Do they love you the better for it? Are their manners more agreeable--their conduct more respectful while at home? Is not rather the reverse of this the case? Do they not give you more trouble at home? Are they not every day incurring new and useless expenses in consequence of allowing them to legislate and plan for themselves? Rashness is the characteristic of youth. But allowing them to be capable of governing themselves, you are a great loser by drawing this strong division line between their pleasures and your own. Your own years are less in number and in happiness. Your children are dead to you, though alive to themselves. Your sympathies are not linked with theirs step by step in life; and thus, although surrounded by children, you go childless, unhappy and gloomy to the grave. Reform then, I say, reform at once. Annihilate this classification of junior and senior pleasures. Join with your children in the dance, the song and the play. Enjoy with them every harmless pleasure and sport of life. Encompass yourself as often as possible with the gay faces of the young. Teach them by example, to be happy like rational beings, and to enjoy life without abusing it. Let the ripe fruit be seen with the green--the blossom with the bud--the green with the fading leaf and the vine with its natural support:

Show the ripe fruit with the green-- Fresh leaves twining with the sear; As in tropic climes are seen Harmonizing through the year.

AUTUMNAL DAYS.

By P. H. Greenleaf.

"The melancholy days are come--the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear; Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the summer leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying wind, and to the rabbit's tread: The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, thro' all the gloomy day."

Stern and forbidding as are the general features of our northern climate--cold and chilling as the gay Southron may deem, even the very air we breathe,--we have still some characteristics of climate peculiar to ourselves, and none the less pleasing to us from this fact. Our hearts must indeed be as hard and as cold as the very granite of our craggy shores, did they not glow with delight in the possession of that, (be it what it may) which is peculiar to and markedly characteristic of our native home. And of all these peculiarities not one is so delightful--not one finds us so rich in New England feeling, as that beautiful season called the Indian Summer. It occurs in October, and is characterized by a soft, hazy atmosphere--by those quiet, and balmy days, which seem so like the last whisperings of a Spring morning. The appearance of the landscape is like any thing, but the fresh and lively scenery of Spring; and yet the delicious softness of the atmosphere is so like it, that it brings back fresh to the mind all the beautiful associations connected with a vernal day. Our forests too, at this season are, for a brief space, clothed in the most gorgeous and magnificent array; their brilliant and changing hues, and the magnificence of their whole appearance, almost give their rich and mellow tint to the atmosphere itself; and render this period unrivalled in beauty, and unequalled in the more equable climes of our western neighbors. The calm sobriety of the scenery--the splendid variety of the forest coloring, from deep scarlet to russet gray, and the quiet and dreamy expression of the autumnal atmosphere make a deeper impression on the mind than all the verdant promises of spring, or the luxuriant possession of summer. The aspen birch in its pallid white--the walnut in its deep yellow--the brilliant maple in its scarlet drapery--and the magical colors of the whole vegetable world, from the aster by the brook to the vine on the trellis, combine to render the autumnal scenery of New-England the most splendid and magnificent in the world.

But we cannot forget, if we would, that this beautiful magnificence of the forests is but the livery of death; and the changing hues of the leaves, beautiful though they are, still are but indications of the sure, but gradual progress of decay.

'Lightly falls the foot of death Whene'er he treads on flowers:'

and though he has breathed beauty on the clustered trees of the forest--it is to them the breath of the Sirocco.

We have in the wasting consumption a parallel to this splendid decay of the leaves and flowers of Summer. Day by day we see its victim with the seal of death upon him--failing and decaying in strength--increasing in beauty. While the brilliant and intellectual glances of the eye speak, in language too plain for the sceptic's denial, the immortality of the soul. The changing and brilliant hues of the forest trees give to us the most lively type of the frailty of beauty and the brevity of human existence, while their death and burial during the winter and their resurrection in the springtime, are almost an assured pledge of our own immortality and resurrection to an eternity.