fiding father to you. But the love of God, and of truth, must be shown by obedience to their laws in deed and word.” “Here, sir, before heaven-"

"No protestations, young man. Notwithstanding what has passed, and my bitter disappointment, I will confide in you-I must confide in you. If I thought that there had been a deliberate plan to deceive, confidence would have flown forever. We cannot believe at will. I intend that you shall be my heir: and as you have given me to know that you will not pursue the law as a profession, I will, inasmuch as you have arrived at an age beyond childhood, consult your wishes, and we will be determined as to the future by our cool consideration of the matter."

Zeb attempted to speak, but his voice failed him. Tears ran down his checks, and he sobbed aloud. Here ended this momentous conference. Uncle Spiffard soon after had an explanation with Mr. Thomas Treadwell, and Zeb was withdrawn from the study of the law.

CHAPTER X.

We return home.-Medicine and Theology in Vermont.

"Let us sit and mock the good housewife, Fortune, from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally."

"Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of nature." "I never did repent of doing good, nor shall not now."

Shakspeare.

"One really does meet with characters that fiction would seem too bold in portraying. This original had an aversion to liquor, which amounted to abhorrence; being embittered by his regret at the mischiefs resulting from it to his friends."-Mrs. Grant.

OUR hero had been between two and three years from under the paternal roof, and, strange as it may appear, had never visited the place of his nativity. One image, connected with home, haunted him. He saw it in the streets, in various shapes, and oft times followed its reeling and devious course, as the bewildered traveller follows the meteor which leads into the marsh or pool, its poisonous origin. This image banished

from his mind all pleasing associations belonging to the scenes of his childhood. It was an image of mourning and desolation. It amounted almost to a monomania, that literally grew with his growth, for he comprehended more and more the degradation of his mother, and the misery of his father, as his mind expanded. He shrunk from a nearer contemplation of the scenes his memory presented, or his imagination suggested. He dreaded the consequences of those too well remembered exhibitions in all their hideousness. A visit to his father's house when thought of, awakened an expectation of witnessing realities, which fancy conjured up to view, and reason forced him to anticipate. He even avoided speaking of home.

Zebediah Spiffard was now nearly nineteen years of age, and as tall as nature or circumstances permitted him ever to be. He had attained his growth sometime before, but had been shook somewhat nearer the common length of man by the fever and ague. His uncle in due time consented to his plan of travelling, and, the notion once adopted, the old man became anxious that his adopted son should be qualified to talk as loud of London and Paris, Vesuvius and Pompeii, Apollo and Venus, Raffaello and Corregio, and all the rest of it, as the sons of his neighbours; but recommended, however, a short delay, and a visit to his parents. Zeb felt and acknowledged the propriety of his uncle's recommendation, but assented with sad forebodings, and reluctantly prepared for a journey to Vermont, although his heart felt the yearnings of affection towards his unfortunate father.

Three winters and two summers had passed since leaving home, and now, in the month of May, (so bright and warm in Italy and Virginia, and so delightful in English poetry, although so cold and dreary in both old and new England) young Mr. Spiffard arrived safely at his native village of Spiffard-town, in the beautiful valley of Long-pond.

Spiffard-town had grown faster than our Zeb. Two new steeples decorated the hill, proving freedom, and, of course, diversity of opinion. No old church claiming infallibility and exclusive right of sway over the minds and actions of men, because it could trace its origin to the times of mental darkness, was here suffered to blast the seed or the growth of God's word, and man's happiness.

The melancholy thoughts which were suggested to the mind of our hero as he approached the place, were dissipated, by the air of improvement, and vigorous youth, that new houses, recently cleared fields, with all the signs of a thriving commu

nity presented to his eyes as he rode to the stage-house, denominated the United States Hotel, and Spiffard-town Coffee House. Neither the house nor its master had ever been seen by him before, and unknowing and unknown he passed on to his father's residence, after seeing his baggage in the safe custody of the bar. As he approached the parental dwelling, he was struck by the external marks of premature decay. This strongly contrasted with the youthful freshness of the newly erected houses he had passed. They were neat and tastefully painted white, with green blinds. The neglect on his father's premises told a tale of sorrow. The white paint had not been renewed since he left the village, and the once cheerful face of home was spotted like an Indian with the leprosy, as if giving note of the diseased state of things within. The palings of the court-yard fence were broken, and the gate hung by one hinge. A pane of glass in one of the upper windows had been broken, and its place was supplied by an old white hat.

Every heart-sinking thought that had occurred to the sensitive youth during his journey, was revived, and rushed upon him with double force: the recollections of his boyhood came not as bright visions of past joy, but as images of loathsome realities-long detested, and oft banished—ever returning, and now mingled with misgivings increased at every step and by every object that met his view.

A cold rain added, (to the sufferings of his mind,) those physical achings, shiverings and chills, which must be taken into the account of the estimate of all mortal woe or weal, whether identified and specified or not; and as Spiffard-town was with out pavements, the slippery rain-wet-clay, and occasional mud pits in his path, by no means cheered his walk or alleviated the gloom, within or without.

He passed through the disabled gate and pushed open the house-door, which had never been garnished by lock, and now had no latch. The old house-dog growled as he entered the street door, but the next moment wagged his tail, tried to look in his face with eyes covered by the film of old age, licked his hand, and whined a mournful note of recognition. But poor old Cato, like all that the youth had seen on his return to his native place, bore the marks of neglect and decay; and although his greetings were meant to be cordial, they took naught from the weight which oppressed the young man's heart. He turned into the well-known "keeping room," which appeared as if diminished to half its former size. Here he found the first human creature that had greeted him. In the first apart

ment that he entered-the room where in days of yore he had mingled with the family in all domestic appliances, he saw a little girl, too young to be left unattended, who was sitting on the floor by the hearth, and near to the remains of a fire: she looked at him with a vacant stare, and said, whiningly, "Mama's in the bed-room."

"Go

This was his sister-his mother's youngest child. He bent down to kiss her, but was repulsed with an exclamation, along! you are an ugly man! Don't come here again!"

And where is your papa?"

"Gone for the doctor."

Poor Spiffard! he felt as though all his misgivings and surmises were realized. Hardly knowing what he did, the youth again attempted to kiss his sister, although her neglected appearance little tempted him to the act; he wanted to touch, in sympathy, some being to whom his blood had affinity-he could have wept upon the bosom of the child-but she turned from him with "Go along! You are ugly! Don't come here any more! They are all in the bed-room."

At this moment his father and the doctor entered. Spiffard saw that in less than three years his father had become an old

man.

We will pass over the particulars of his reception by his unfortunate, kind-hearted father, and his interview with his wretched mother, who was sinking into the grave, mind and body exhausted, conscious of the cause of her own and her husband's misery-tortured by the fears of death, and an eternity for which she was little prepared. But a scene had passed in the young man's presence, previous to his meeting with the unhappy invalid, which we must briefly notice. Such scenes

would be often repeated, if the medical men of our country towns, had, generally, the good sense and determined spirit of the physician who, as above mentioned, had been brought, by her husband, to visit Mrs. Spiffard.

The usual medical attendant upon the sick woman, was a young professor of the healing art, who dwelt in Spiffard-town, and had to establish himself in the world of Long-pond, by yielding to the whims of patients, nurses, and visiters, temporal and spiritual; but the person now introduced to the house, and not for the first time, was Dr. Woodward, a man of long established reputation for skill and knowledge, who lived near twenty miles off, and only came thus far when called on particular occasions. He had long attended the family of Spiffard, when the urgency of the case required his presence, and at all

times advised and directed the practice of the younger and resident physician.

Woodward was a rough-hewn yankee; a man of talents, study, and experience. Soon after entering the house, he had left the son and father together, and with the familiarity of an old acquaintance and veteran practitioner, licensed so to do, had gone into the chamber of the sick woman. Zeb and his father had scarcely exchanged those greetings the occasion required, and their feelings prompted; those inquiries on the son's part, respecting his father's and his mother's condition, had been but begun, (inquiries that were answered more fully by the son's presentiments than by the father's words,) before Woodward abruptly entered, and addressed Spiffard thus :

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“I have told you, squire, before this, that those cursed varmint of croaking men and canting women are killing your wife. And now I tell you, once for all, that you needn't send for, or come for me again, unless you give me absolute power over the sick chamber and the patient."

Why, what's the matter, Doctor?"

"Murder's the matter! murder! You promised me that no one should be allowed to disturb the poor critter. I told you that all the chance she had from my medicine was by keeping her mind quiet; and I told Dr. Chubs the same. But he's young, and thinks he musen't forbid that fellow coming with his bellows and furnace, because he has got a barn to preach in, and fools to groan with him. If she wants a clergyman, you have one at hand in Parson Wilford, who knows his duty to God and man, as far as I know.”

"And have they taken advantage of my absence while going to call you? I ordered the nurse to admit no one."

"The room is full. That yellow-faced crow, Martin, who couldn't live by goose and cabbage, as a tailor, is howling like a wolf; and a wolf he is in sheep's clothing: and a dozen women are groaning and sobbing like a camp-meeting; while your wife lies frightened into hysterics, and will die-and quickly too, if not rescued from the philistines."

"I will be obeyed," said the husband; and was going— Stop!" said Woodward; "do you give me full powers?" * Yes. Your orders shall be obeyed!"

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Then stay you here. I'll give them a touch of my practice."

Woodward again entered the sick woman's chamber. Spiffard stood like a statue, waiting the event. His father paced the A noise, like the confusion of a miniature Babel, as

room.