The Resurrectionist The Lost Work of Dr. - By E. B. Hudspeth Page 0,1

my grandparents were, and they gave me a rigorous theological education. I was very much afraid of what we did those nights; of all the terrible sins a man might commit, stealing the dead seemed among the worst. In my childish imagination, God’s wrathful arm was ever-ready and ever-present. And yet I feared my father even more than I feared my God.

My father reminded us there was no cause for trepidation or fear. He would repeat these things as we dug through the night, as the smell of the body’s decay rose around us. Soon we reached the soft, damp, wood coffin of Jasper Earl Werthy. The wood cracked, releasing more of death’s repugnant odor. I put my spade down, grateful that my father was wrenching the wood and freeing the body himself, sparing us this task. Jasper’s face was a sunken gray mask; his skin was like a rotten orange. This is how I came to understand my father’s profession.

Soon afterward, Dr. Black penned another journal entry with a short poem titled “A Dreadful Sight.” The poem appears to be inspired by his experiences robbing graves. It is the only known work of poetry found among Dr. Black’s papers and reflects a creative impulse that manifested itself in his numerous illustrations.

A Dreadful Sight

I went to rest one merry night,

On the morrow was a dreadful sight.

My dear loved one has passed away.

So to the coffin she must stay.

In the earth where ’tis quiet and calm

to rest in peace till the Lord has come.

I go to visit, weep and mourn.

Lo’ my loved one’s body has gone.

Not to heaven where she belongs

but from the grave to the doctor’s room.

In the winter of 1868, Spencer Black’s father, Gregory, died from smallpox, a disease that some say he would have been brilliant enough to cure had he been given forewarning. Soon after the funeral, Spencer announced his decision to become a medical doctor. It’s clear throughout Black’s writings that he thought of death as an abstract concept; he often calls death “the phenomenon of the living” and even regarded the passing of his own father as more of a curiosity than a tragedy.

As he lay in the ground, and the dirt and the sod were laid over him, all was quiet. I waited for a long space of time. I waited to hear something: a command or suggestion, a provocation that might confirm that his death took something away from me, but I received no such thing.

Bernard Black kept a separate journal of his life and work in the natural sciences until his disappearance in 1908. His wife, Emma, published some of his writings in her book entitled A Journey with an American Naturalist. This entry was written in the same week as the patriarch’s death:

At that moment, when I had a great and heavy pain that was suffered upon me by our father’s death, I could see Spencer at that very identical moment looked exalted. He leapt into my father’s grave with all his heart, chasing after death to seek out its hiding place.

After the passing of their father, Spencer and Bernard moved to Philadelphia in the fall of 1869 and were placed in the care of their uncle Zacariah and aunt Isadore. The funerary costs were quite extensive; Gregory had set some money aside for his burial, but it was not enough. Zacariah and Isadore paid the balance out of their savings, and it was likely a significant sum. Then, as now, a proper burial came at a high price.

1869

THE ACADEMY OF MEDICINE

The truth is a commodity that is rarely distributed

in these empirical times. What evidence can be given

that the sun is bright on both of its sides? I cannot

prove this, so is it thusly untrue?

—Sir Vincent Holmes, biologist, founder of the

Academy of Medicine

Prior to moving to Philadelphia, Bernard had already completed three years of schooling at the Medical Arts College of Boston, whereas Spencer had completed just one. Both young men enrolled in Philadelphia’s Academy of Medicine to continue their studies. It was during this year that Spencer began keeping his journal.

September 1869

What a miracle it is to be human! I endeavor to write this account of my life, the chronicling of my study and experience with the Academy of Medicine here in Philadelphia—not my place of birth. It was not by my choosing that I would pursue a career in medicine—this is a matter of fate, God, destiny, or some other weapon of man.

I was born of good and well-educated