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Page 31
THE REJECTED BLESSING.
One day, in 1721, Doctor Cotton Mather sat in his library, reading a
book that had been published by the Royal Society of London. But, every
few moments, he laid the book upon the table, and leaned back in
Grandfather's chair, with an aspect of deep care and disquietude. There
were certain things which troubled him exceedingly, so that he could
hardly fix his thoughts upon what he read.
It was now a gloomy time in Boston. That terrible disease, the small
pox, had recently made its appearance in the town. Ever since the first
settlement of the country, this awful pestilence had come, at intervals,
and swept away multitudes of the inhabitants. Whenever it commenced its
ravages, nothing seemed to stay its progress, until there were no more
victims for it to seize upon. Oftentimes, hundreds of people, at once,
lay groaning with its agony; and when it departed, its deep footsteps
were always to be traced in many graves.
The people never felt secure from this calamity. Sometimes, perhaps, it
was brought into the country by a poor sailor, who had caught the
infection in foreign parts, and came hither to die, and to be the cause
of many deaths. Sometimes, no doubt, it followed in the train of the
pompous governors, when they came over from England. Sometimes, the
disease lay hidden in the cargoes of ships, among silks and brocades,
and other costly merchandise, which was imported for the rich people to
wear. And, sometimes, it started up, seemingly of its own accord; and
nobody could tell whence it came. The physician, being called to attend
the sick person, would look at him, and say,--"It is the small pox! let
the patient be carried to the hospital."
And now, this dreadful sickness had shown itself again in Boston. Cotton
Mather was greatly afflicted, for the sake of the whole province. He had
children, too, who were exposed to the danger. At that very moment, he
heard the voice of his youngest son, for whom his heart was moved with
apprehension.
"Alas! I fear for that poor child," said Cotton Mather to himself. "What
shall I do for my son Samuel?"
Again, he attempted to drive away these thoughts, by taking up the book
which he had been reading. And now, all of a sudden, his attention
became fixed. The book contained a printed letter that an Italian
physician had written upon the very subject, about which Cotton Mather
was so anxiously meditating. He ran his eye eagerly over the pages; and,
behold! a method was disclosed to him, by which the small pox might be
robbed of its worst terrors. Such a method was known in Greece. The
physicians of Turkey, too, those long-bearded Eastern sages, had been
acquainted with it for many years. The negroes of Africa, ignorant as
they were, had likewise practised it, and thus had shown themselves
wiser than the white men.
"Of a truth," ejaculated Cotton Mather, clasping his hands and looking
up to Heaven, "it was a merciful Providence that brought this book under
mine eye! I will procure a consultation of physicians, and see whether
this wondrous Inoculation may not stay the progress of the Destroyer."
So he arose from Grandfather's chair, and went out of the library. Near
the door he met his son Samuel, who seemed downcast and out of spirits.
The boy had heard, probably, that some of his playmates were taken ill
with the small pox. But, as his father looked cheerfully at him, Samuel
took courage, trusting that either the wisdom of so learned a minister
would find some remedy for the danger, or else that his prayers would
secure protection from on high.
Meanwhile, Cotton Mather took his staff and three-cornered hat, and
walked about the streets, calling at the houses of all the physicians in
Boston. They were a very wise fraternity; and their huge wigs, and black
dresses, and solemn visages, made their wisdom appear even profounder
than it was. One after another, he acquainted them with the discovery
which he had hit upon.
But these grave and sagacious personages would scarcely listen to him.
The oldest doctor in town contented himself with remarking, that no such
thing as inoculation was mentioned by Galen or Hippocrates, and it was
impossible that modern physicians should be wiser than those old sages.
A second held up his hands in dumb astonishment and horror, at the
madness of what Cotton Mather proposed to do. A third told him, in
pretty plain terms, that he knew not what he was talking about. A fourth
requested, in the name of the whole medical fraternity, that Cotton
Mather would confine his attention to people's souls, and leave the
physicians to take care of their bodies.
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