CHAPTER XL.
"How few, like thee, inquire the wretched out,
And court the offices of soft humanity!
Like thee, reserve their raiment for the naked,
Reach out their bread to feed the crying orphan,
Or mix the pitying tears with those that weep!" Rowe.
Wednesday, October 22d.
Last evening the company began to assemble for the levee at an early hour, and consisted of persons selected without any reference to the accidental distinctions of wealth and rank. Mr. Marshall, the attorney General, and Thomas Jones the reformed inebriate, but now one of the most respectable and respected citizens of the town, were in close proximity. Here too, were Mr. Allen and Mrs. Lucy Mansfield, at the head of the wealthy aristocracy, in animated conversation with William and Anna Reynolds, once so oppressed with poverty. Mr. Benson and Emily, who would anywhere be recognized as persons of true refinement and grace, bestowed special attention upon those present, who were unaccustomed to such scenes, and on that account timid and reserved. A table was extended the entire length of the dining room, and bountifully crowned with delicacies and luxuries, of which at the proper hour all were invited to partake. The bride and bridegroom with their train, who were in attendance as at the wedding, mingled with the company and addressed a kind word to each.
There were so many children and young people present who were obliged to leave at an early hour, that the Doctor, after consultation with me, requested Mr. Munroe to close this interesting interview with prayer. Instead of complying immediately with this request, I noticed that Dr. Clapp stepped forward and said something to the Doctor, and then suddenly left the room in company with the reverend gentleman, Mr. Marshall, Allen Mansfield, and one or two others. I looked at Frank, wondering what this could mean. He whispered to me, that Dr. C. wanted to have a little singing. I was still more puzzled when Emily Benson touched my arm and desired to speak with me. "They have found out," said she, "that it is Frank's birth-day, and want to sing a hymn in honor of the event. Take his arm and keep him quiet, just where you are." She then went and led mother and the children near me, and taking her husband's arm, stood behind us.
The gentlemen returned, and Dr. Clapp, who is a fine singer, commenced the following hymn, in which he was joined at first by nearly all the company except our immediate family:
To him who e'er hast lent a hand
In hours of direst woe,
Who like a brother led the way,
And showed us how to go;
To him who oft has bowed the knee
Beside the lowly cot,
Here thanks we give, here thanks we pay,
On this thy natal day.
Kind benefactor, brother, friend,
Our words but feebly tell
The gush of love comes over us,
And in our bosoms swell,
For all thy kindness, all thy care
For souls by sin oppressed,
Here thanks we give, here thanks we pay,
On this thy natal day.
May He who in his precious word
Declares the giver blessed,
E'en far beyond recipients,
Pronounce thee doubly blessed;
And as swift years their circles speed,
May lover, children, friends,
Combine to bless thy natal day,
As we our thanks do pay.
I never knew Frank so much overcome. He put his handkerchief to his eyes, and then made a movement as if he were meditating an escape from the room; but I whispered, "don't leave me, Frank."
When the singing terminated, Rev. Mr. Munroe stepped forward and began to make a speech. My heart beat very fast; and for a moment I felt as if I were going to be married. I was so much overcome that I could not hear all that was said, but the next hour was occupied with speeches addressed to the Doctor, by Rev. Mr. Munroe, Mr. Marshall, Dr. Clapp, and Thomas Jones; each of whom in a most delicate manner, spoke of his happy influence and professional services. Mr. Munroe said, "No one could fully estimate the value of the labors of a pious physician this side of eternity." "Everywhere," he continued, "among this people, I find occasion to bless God for locating me in a parish where those labors abound."
Dr. Clapp thanked my husband for his kind attention, encouragement and friendship, and concluded by saying "I owe all my present ease and comfort to you, Dr. Lenox."
Allen Mansfield followed him, and in glowing terms spoke of the blessings for which under God he and his were indebted to Frank, and to our family.
Next Thomas Jones came forward to acknowledge his obligations. He commenced in a lofty strain. "Dear sir, I speak not for myself alone, but for a large class in the community, some of whom I see standing around you and your worthy lady and family, persons who through your instrumentality."—Poor man, his emotion choked his utterance, and he suddenly stopped, caught the Doctor by the hand, and broke out in a more natural and therefore impressive strain; "Oh, sir, think what I was when you found me, took me out of the ditch, led me home by the hand, encouraged and warned me, prayed with me and for me; think of me, a poor besotted drunkard, frightening my own wife and children, and see what your kindness has made of me and of them. I say with Dr. Clapp, that under God, I owe all this to you, Doctor; and there's many here whose hearts are saying the same thing. God bless you, Doctor, your beloved wife and children; and may he also bless us, and gladden our hearts, by many returns of your birth-day. Mr. Willard had prepared me a fine speech for the occasion; but before I got through the first sentence I forgot the whole of it." This frank acknowledgment suddenly turned the sorrow that was suffusing so many eyes into a roar of laughter, in which even the weeping Doctor could not but unite.
Finally, Mr. Marshall presented himself and said, "Dr. Lenox, there are many persons in this company who have it in their hearts to reiterate the remarks of Mr. Jones, Dr. Clapp and others who have addressed you; but the lateness of the hour forbids them the pleasure. Enough has been said to convince you, their esteemed friend and physician, that your labors have been neither in vain, nor unappreciated. In their behalf and in my own behalf, I thank you for your ministrations of kindness, for your charity to the poor, and your relief of the distressed; and I cordially unite with them in the desire that your life and valuable services may be long spared to us, and to the community in which we live. I conclude with this sentiment: "Our beloved physician—he has sown bountifully, may he also reap bountifully, harvesting esteem in this world, and life eternal in the world to come."
"Thy natal day—
And duly shall our raptured song,
And gladly shall our eyes
Still bless this day's return, so long
As thou shalt see it rise."
When he had closed, Mr. Marshall, perceiving that the Doctor was too much overcome to attempt a reply, turned to the pastor, who concluded the service with a solemn and impressive prayer. There was hardly a dry eye in the room, while Cæsar and Phebe, who stood in the rear of our family, sobbed aloud. The Doctor kept his handkerchief to his eyes, and he told me afterwards, that it was with difficulty he could support himself.
After prayer, the company bade us good night and retired. The next morning, at family prayers, I was delighted to hear my husband pray that he might not be led to take to himself that glory which was due to God alone; but that the late scene might humble him and render him more diligent in his master's service.
Friday, October 24th.
This morning, before Pauline's departure, Eugene put into her hand, legal documents conveying to her one half of their deceased father's estate. Uncle and aunt Morgan are to return with the bride and bridegroom. Charles Karswell and Anna Reynolds are to be of the party as far as New York city, and Eugene to New Haven, where he is to resume his place in the senior class in Yale College, which he entered at the last commencement.
Now that they all have gone, I begin to realize that Pauline, the child of my heart, has left me, and in spite of all my efforts at resistance, a sadness steals over my spirits. I try to compose myself, and to realize some comfort from the thought my dear husband holds up to my view, that I have gained a son. But as yet I can only remember that I have lost the society and companionship of my lovely daughter; I think that Frank feels her loss almost as much as I do; for though he appears very cheerful, yet there is a pallor about his mouth which I have always noticed when his feelings are deeply moved. I heard him as he left me to visit his patients humming a lively tune; but I knew that he only did it, as boys whistle in the dark, to keep their courage up.