In China, the houses appear to be fashioned after the tent, as if the idea had been borrowed from the pastoral age, when the inhabitants subsisted upon flocks, and dwelt in tents.

The Gothic architecture appears to be an imitation of the grove; the roof being supported by pillars, branching upward. The engraving will give some idea of this style of building. It flourished from the year 1000 to 1500, A. D., and was particularly used in the construction of churches, monasteries, and other religious buildings, during that period. In France and Germany there are still to be seen many churches in this style; and though they have an ancient and gloomy appearance, they are very beautiful, and the sombre light within, seems well fitted to a place of worship. In England, also, there are many Gothic edifices of the olden time, among which Westminster Abbey, in London, is a fine specimen. In Boston, Trinity Church is somewhat in the Gothic taste; and at Hartford there is a fine specimen, in the Episcopal Church. There are also several other edifices in this country, of recent structure, which are imitations, in part, of ancient Gothic buildings; but a pure example of this style is hardly to be found, except in Europe, and among the edifices of past centuries.

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.”