Merry’s Life and Adventures.
CHAPTER XIV.
Recovery from sickness.—Change of character.—Story of a quack.
In about two months after my accident, I rose from the sick bed, and was permitted to walk abroad. Although it was autumn, and the sere and yellow leaves were now nearly stript from the trees, the face of nature bore an aspect of loveliness to me. I had so long been shut up, and excluded alike from fresh air and the out-door scenes of life, that I was like a man long deprived of food, with a ravenous appetite and a full meal before him. I enjoyed everything; the air, the landscape, the walk—each and all delighted me. My fever was entirely gone, and, having nothing but weakness to contend with, I recovered my former state of health and strength in the course of a few weeks.
But I was not restored to my full flow of spirits—nor, indeed, from that day, have I ever felt again the joyous gush of boyhood emotions. My accident, attended by the wholesome shame it produced, had in no small degree abated my self-appreciation. I was humbled, if not before the world, at least in my own esteem. My sick-bed reflections, too, had served to sober my mind, and give me a sense of responsibility I had never felt before. I had, in short, passed from the gay thoughtlessness of a boy to somewhat of the sobriety of manhood.
I did not, myself, remark the change in my manners or my character; but others did. My uncle, particularly, noticed it, and became uneasy, or, rather, vexed about it. He was a jolly old man, and wished everybody else to be jolly too. Nor could he readily comprehend why such a change should have come over me: he did not easily appreciate sickness, or its effects; nor did he estimate the sobering influences of reflection. He insisted upon it that I was “in the dumps” about something; and, half in jest and half in earnest, he scolded me from morn to night.
In spite of all this, I continued to be a much more serious personage than before, and my uncle at last became alarmed. Though a man of pretty good sense, in general, he entertained a contempt for physicians, especially those engaged in regular practice. If he had faith in any, it was in those who are usually called quacks. He believed that the power of healing lay rather in some natural gift, than in the skill acquired by study and practice. As usually happens in such cases, any impudent pretender could deceive him, and the more gross the cheat, the more readily was he taken in, himself. Having made up his mind that I was, as he expressed himself, “in a bad way,” he was casting about as to what was to be done, when, one evening, a person, notorious in those days, and an inhabitant of a neighboring town, chanced to stop at the tavern. This person was called Dr. Farnum, and, if I may use the expression, he was a regular quack.
I happened to be in the bar-room when the doctor came. He was a large, stout man, with grizzled hair, a long cue adown his back, and a small, fiery, gray eye. This latter feature was deep-set beneath a shaggy eyebrow, and seemed as restless as a red squirrel upon a tree, of a frosty morning. It was perpetually turning from object to object, seeming to take a keen and prying survey of everything around, as we sometimes see a cat, when entering a strange room. The doctor’s dress was even more remarkable than his person: he wore small-clothes—the fashion of the time—and top-boots, the upper portion being not a little soiled and fretted by time and use. His hat had a rounded crown, in the manner of an ancient helmet; and the brim, of enormous width, was supported on each side by strings running to the crown. His over-coat was long and ample, and of that reddish brown, called butternut color. I noticed that the hat and boots were of the same hue, and afterwards learned that this was a point of importance, for the person in question assumed and maintained the designation of the “but’nut doctor.”
Having greeted my uncle heartily, and said “good day” to the loungers around the fire, he took a seat, spread his feet apart, and, sliding his hands up and down his legs, from the thigh to the shin-bone, called for a glass of flip. This was soon provided, and taking a large quid of tobacco out of his mouth—which he held in his hand, to be restored to its place after the liquor was discussed—he applied himself to the steaming potation. Having tasted this, and smacked his lips, a lickerish smile came over his face, and turning round to the company, he said, in an insinuating tone—“Does any on ye know of any body that’s sick in these parts?”
There was a momentary pause—and then Mat Olmstead, the standing wag of the village, replied: “Nobody, I guess, unless it’s Deacon Kellig’s cow.”
“Well,” said the doctor, not at all abashed at the titter which followed—“well, I can cure a cow; it’s not as if I was one of your college-larnt doctors; I should then be too proud to administer to a brute. But, the scriptur’ says, a marciful man is marciful to a beast—and I prefer follerin’ scriptur’ to follerin’ the fashion. If Providence has given me a gift, I shall not refuse to bestow it on any of God’s critters that stand in need on ’t.”
“Well,” said Matthew, “do you cure a cow with the same physic that you cure a man?”
“Why not?” said Farnum; “it’s better to be cured by chance, than killed by rule. The pint is, to get cured, in case of sickness, whether it’s a beast, or a man. Nater’s the great physician, and I foller that.”
“What is nater?” said Olmstead.
“Nater? Ah, that’s the question! Nater’s——nater!”—
“Indeed?—but can’t you tell us what it is?”
“I guess I could, if I tried: it’s the most mysteriousest thing in the univarsal world. I’ve looked into ’t, and I know. Now, when a cow has lost the cud, so that it won’t work up or down, I go to a place where there’s some elder; then I cut some strips of the bark up; and I cut some on ’t down; and I cut some on ’t round and round. I then make a wad on ’t, and put it down the cow’s throat. That part of the bark that’s cut up, brings the cud up; that part that’s cut down, carries it down; and that part that’s cut round and round, makes it work round and round: and so, you see, there’s a kind of huzzlety muzzlety, and it sets everything agoin’, and all comes right, and the critter’s cured as clean as mud. That’s what I call nater!”
This speech was uttered with a very knowing air, and it seemed to derive additional authority from the long cue and broad brim of the speaker. He looked around, and perceived a sort of awful respect in the countenances of the hearers. Even the shrewd and satirical Matthew was cowed by the wisdom and authority of the doctor. My uncle, who had hitherto stood behind the bar, now came forward, and, sitting down by his side, inquired how it was that he had gained such a wonderful sight of knowledge.
“Why,” says Farnum, “there ’tis agin, squire; it’s nater—it’s clear nater. I never went to college, but I had a providential insight into things from my childhood. Now, here’s my but’nut physic—it’s true, an Indian give me the fust notion on’t; but I brought it to perfection, from my own study into nater. Now, all them doctors’ stuffs that you git at the pottekary’s, is nothin’ but pizen; thur’s no nater in’t. My physic is all yarbs—every mite on’t. I can cure a man, woman, or child, jest as sure as a cat’ll lick butter! There’s no mistake.”
“Well, how did you find it out, doctor?” said my uncle, seeming anxious to give him an opportunity to unfold his wisdom.
“Can you tell why a duck takes to water?” said Farnum, with a look of conscious importance. “It’s because it’s in him. ’Twas jest so with me. I had a nateral instinct that telled me that there was something very mysterious in the number seven. I expect I got some on’t from the scriptur’, for there’s a great deal there about it. Well, one dark, rainy night, as I was goin’ along thro’ some woods, thinkin’ about somethin’ or other, I came to a bridge over a river. The wind was blowin’ desput hard, and it seemed to go through me like a hetchel through a hand of flax. I stood there a minit, and then I looked down into the dark water, wolloping along; and, thinks I, it’s all exactly like human nater. Well, now, if you’ll believe me, jest as that are thought crossed my mind, I heerd a hoot-owl in the woods. He hooted jest seven times, and then he stopped. Then he hooted seven times more, and so kept goin’ on, till he’d hooted jest forty-nine times. Now, thinks I to myself, this must mean somethin’, but I couldn’t tell what. I went home, but I didn’t sleep any. The next day I couldn’t eat anything, and, in fact, I grew as thin as a June shad. All the time I was thinkin’ of the bridge, and the wind whistlin’, and the river, and the dark rollin’ water, and the hoot-owl that spoke to me seven times seven times.
“Well, now, there was an Indian in the place, who was famous for curin’ all sorts of diseases with yarbs. I went to see him one day, and tell’d him I was sick. He ax’d me what was the matter, and I related the story of the owl. ‘You are the man I have been seeking for,’ said he. ‘The spirit of the night has told me that I shall soon die; and he has commanded me to give my secret to one that shall be sent. In seven weeks from the time that you were at the bridge, meet me there at midnight.’
“True to the appointment, I went to the bridge. It was a rainy night agin, and agin the wind howled over the bridge—agin the owl was there, and agin he lifted up his voice forty-nine times. At that moment I saw the dark Indian come upon the bridge. He then told me his secret. ‘Man,’ said he, ‘is subject to seven times seven diseases; and there are seven times seven plants made for their cure. Go, seek, and you shall find!’ Saying this, the dark figure leaped over the bridge, and disappeared in the waters. I stood and heerd a gurgling and choking sound, and saw somethin’ strugglin’ in the stream; but the Indian disappeared, and I have never seen him sence. I went from the place, and I soon found the forty-nine yarbs, and of these I make my pills. Each pill has seven times seven ingredients in it; though but’nut’s the chief, and that’s why it’s called but’nut physic. You may give it in any disease, and the cure for ’tis there. I’ve tried it in nine hundred and thirty-seven cases, and it haint failed but six times, and that, I reckon, was for want of faith. Here’s some of the pills; there’s forty-nine in a box, and the price is a dollar.”
Such was the doctor’s marvellous tale, and every word of it was no doubt a fiction.
It may seem strange that such an impostor as this should succeed; but, for some reason or other, mankind love to be cheated by quacks. This is the only reason I can assign for the fact, that Dr. Farnum sold six boxes of his pills before he left the tavern, and one of them to my uncle. The next day he insisted upon my taking seven of them, and, at his urgent request, I complied. The result was, that I was taken violently ill, and was again confined to my room for a fortnight. At length I recovered, and my uncle insisted that if I had not taken the pills, I should have had a much worse turn; and, therefore, it was regarded as a remarkable proof of the efficacy of Farnum’s pills. Some two or three years after, I saw my own name in the doctor’s advertisement, among a list of persons who had been cured in a wonderful manner, by the physic of the butter-nut doctor.
I have thought it worth while to note these incidents, because they amused me much at the time, and proved a lesson to me through life—which I commend to all my readers—and that is, never to place the slightest confidence in a quack.