Chapter I

My excellent old uncle Jesse—peace to his ashes!—used to tell me that every thing depended on the “bringing up;” and a little experience in this world of strange men and things—but a very good world, for all that—has convinced me that he was considerably more than half right.

Some people have learned to depend upon themselves in the hour of peril. The energy, firmness, and decision of their own characters are their sword, shield, and steed when

Their fortress is within themselves. They have been taught by their instructors or by their circumstances to rely upon their own strength.

Others are weak, nervous and vacillating in the presence of danger, throwing the burden of their salvation on the shoulders of the first “Good Samaritan” who approaches them. Their tower of strength is the doctor, the minister, the lawyer, or some sympathizing friend. They have never been taught, either by their instructors or their circumstances, to depend upon their own resources, moral, mental, and physical, for guidance and support.

If the house takes fire, one puts it out; but another runs to the church and rings the bell for his neighbors. If Tommy wheezes, papa, who has no confidence in himself, sends for the doctor; while mamma, who has been taught from childhood to think and act for herself, is in favor of giving the little fellow “an onion and a little goose oil.”

But extremes are always silly or dangerous, as the case may be. People laugh at papa, because he is so ridiculously timid; and mamma delays sending for the physician till Tommy is almost dead with the croup. One lets his house burn down while he is summoning his friends to help him put it out; and another’s is destroyed because he attempted to put it out alone, when he actually needed the assistance of his neighbors. After all, it requires considerable judgment to get along in the world.

We have no intention of writing a homily on the proper conduct of men and women in connection with the casualties of life. Whether or not it be expedient to send for the doctor when the baby sneezes, we leave to the judgment of the parties immediately interested. We have a story to tell, which illustrates both sides of the question; and either disputant in the important controversy is at liberty to appropriate the moral to sustain his or her cherished theory.

Millbrook is a manufacturing village, and the most important person there, at the time of which we write, was Mr. Milton Barrington, who, to use the metaphorical language of the villagers, “run” the principal mill. Though quite a young man, he had amassed a handsome fortune, and by his enterprise, public spirit, and general character as a person of integrity and fairness, had attained the most influential position in the village. People looked to him for advice and assistance in their extremity, and no one ever thought of making a motion in town meeting to build a new school house, lay out a road, or of making any important movement, until he had been consulted. The people were mainly on his side in politics, religion, and philosophy. Whatever he did, he was pretty sure to have plenty of imitators.

Mr. Barrington had spent the flower of his manhood in the pursuit of wealth; and the idea of getting married did not occur to him till he had reached his thirtieth year. Probably he would not have thought of such a thing then, if a pretty and otherwise eligible young lady had not at that time crossed his path, reminding him of his duty in the premises.

Three years after, we find him in the full enjoyment of all the blessings of the connubial state, and the father of a pretty little boy just eighteen months old. Mr. Barrington was the happiest of fathers, and to use grandma’s enthusiastic expression, “he set his life by that boy.”

It was a cold night in December. Mr. Barrington was reading Mrs. Stowe’s Sunny Memories to his wife, while little Charley lay asleep in his crib beside them.

The clock struck ten, and as the father laid aside the book, Charley coughed rather hoarsely, and waking up, began to scream most lustily. Mrs. Barrington took him up and tried to quiet him; but he obstinately refused to be quieted.

Mr. Barrington was alarmed. Charley was not accustomed to have such freaks.

“What do you think ails him?” asked he of his wife.

“He has got a little cold, probably.”

“Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?” continued Mr. Barrington, nervously.

“Not the least need of it.”

“But the croup, my dear?”

“That cough was nothing like the croup.”

Mr. Barrington was comforted by this assurance, and in a little while, Charley got tired of crying, and went to sleep again.

The child was carried up stairs, and they retired. But Mr. Barrington was not wholly satisfied. The croup was so sudden and so fatal that the cough he had heard seemed to haunt his imagination. He could not go to sleep for thinking of it. He trembled at the thought of losing the darling little one. He had passed almost into a confirmed old bachelor before his marriage, and the diseases of children had never received much consideration from him. He had heard people tell how dreadful the croup was, and only a week before the only child of one of his overseers had died with it, after an illness of scarcely twelve hours.

The clock on the village church struck one, and he was still awake. His wife slept soundly. She was better acquainted with the nature of the dreadful disease, and had felt no alarm when the child coughed.

While he was thus thinking of what might possibly happen, Charley coughed again, and jumping up in the bed, began to scream as he had in the evening.

Mrs. Barrington took him in her arms.

“Did you hear him cough?” asked the trembling father.

“I did not. His screams awoke me.”

“Don’t he breathe hard? Are you sure he has not got the croup?”

“I do not think he has. He seems to breathe freely,” replied Mrs. Barrington. “He is a little hoarse, but I do not think it is any thing serious.”

“I am afraid it is. Don’t you think I had better send for the doctor?”

“There is no occasion to do so.”

“I am really alarmed about him.”

“Do as you wish; though I think it is only a little cold.”

Mr. Barrington was satisfied it was the croup, and the consent of his wife, thus doubtfully given, was all he required. The “man of all work” was called up and despatched for Dr. Broadbeam, with a request that the physician would come with all possible haste.