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♦ hen, without word or cry, fell senseless upon her
husband’s corpse. .
u But ladies,” said Dr. Barnaby, turning to his
audience, “ the sun shines again ; }ou can go out
now. Let us leave this sad story where it is.”
Madame de Moncar approached the old physi
cian. “Doctor,” said she, “I implore you to
continue ; only look at us, and you will not doubt
the interest with which we listen.”
There were no more smiles of mockery upon
the voung faces that surrounded the village doc
tor/ In some of their eyes he might even distin
guish the glistening of tears. He resumed his
narrative.
“ Mrs. Meredith was carried home, and re
mained for several hours senseless upon her bed.
1 felt it at once a duty and a cruelty to use every
effort to recall her to life. I dreaded the agonising
scenes that would follow this state ot immobility.
I remained beside the poor woman, bathing her
temples with fresh water, and awaiting with anxi
ety the sad and yet the happy moment of re
turning consciousness. I was mistaken in my
anticipations, for I had never witnessed great
grief. Eva half opened her eyes and immedi
ately closed them again 5 no tear escaped from be
neath their lids. She remained cold, motionless,
silent; and, but for the heart which again throb
bed beneath my hand, I should have deemed hei
dead. Sad is ft to behold a sorrow which one feels
is beyond consolation 1 Silence, I thought, seemed
like a want of pity for this unfortunate creature ;
on the other hand, verbal condolence was a mock
ery of so mighty a grief. I had found no words
to calm her uneasiness ; could I hope to be more
eloquent in the hour of her great suffering ? I
took the safest course, that ot profound silence,
I will remain here, I thought, and minister to the
physical sufferings, as is my duty ; but I will be
mute and passive, even as a faithful dog would
lie down at her feet. My mind once made up, I
felt calmer; I let her live a life which resembled
death. After a few hours, however, I put a
spoonful of a potion to her lips. Eva slowly
averted her head. In a few moments I again of
fered her the drug.
“ Drink, madam,” I said, gently touching her
lips with the spoon. They remained closed.
“Madam, your child ! ” I persisted, in a low
voice. •
Eva opened her eyes, raised herself with effort
upon her elbow, swallowed the medicine, and
fell back upon her pillow.
“I must wait,” she murmured, “till another
life is detached from mine! ”
Thenceforward Mrs. Meredith spoke no more,
but she mechanically followed all my prescrip
tions. Stretched upon her bed of suffering, she
seemed constantly to sleep ; but at whatever mo
ment I said to her, even in my lowest whisper,
“Drink this,” she instantly obeyed ; thus proving
to me that the soul kept its weary watch in that
motionless body, without a single instant of ob
livion and repose.
There were none beside myself to attend to
the interment of William. Nothing positive was
ever known as to the cause of his death. The
sum he was to bring from the town was not found
upon him; perhaps he had been robbed and mur
dered; perhaps the money, which was in notes,
had fallen from his pocket when he was thrown
from his horse, and, as it was sometime before
any thought of seeking it, the heavy rain and
trampled mud might account for its disappear
ance. A fruitless investigation was made and soon
dropped. I endeavored to learn from Eva Mere
dith if her family, or that of her husband should
not be written to. I had difficulty in obtaining
an answer. At last she gave me to understand
that I had merely to inform tneir agent, who would
do whatever was needful. I hoped that, at least
from England, some communication would arrive,
decisive of this poor creature’s future lot. But no ;
day followed day, and none seemed to know that
the widow of William Meredith lived in utter isola
tion, in a poor French village. To endeavor to
brine: back Eva to the sense of her existence, I
urged her to leave her bed. Upon the morrow I
found her up, dressed in black ; but she was the
ghost of the beautiful Eva Meredith. Her hair
was parted in bands upon her pale forehead, and
she sat near a window, motionless as she had
lain in bed.
I passed long silent evenings with her, a book
in my hand for apparent occupation. Each day,
on my arrival, I addressed to her a few words of
svmpathy. She replied by a thankful look; then
we remained silent. I waited an opportunity to
open a conversation; but my awkwardness and
my respect for her grief prevented my finding one,
or suffered it to escape when it occurred. Little
by little I grew accustomed to this mute intercourse,
and, besides, what could I have said to her? My
chief object was to prevent her from feeling quite
alone in the world ; and, obscure as was the prop
remaining, it still was something. I went to see
her merely that my presence might say, “ I am
here.” .
• It was a singular epoch in my life, and had a
good influence on my future existence. Had I
not shown so much regret at the threatened de
struction of the white cottage, I would hurry to
the conclusion of this narrative. But you have
insisted upon knowing why that building is hal
lowed to me, and I must tell you therefore what I
have thought and felt beneath its humble roof.—
i orgive me, ladies, if my words are grave. It
is good for youth to be sometimes a little sad
dened ; it has so much time before it to laugh and
to forget. .
The son of a rich peasant, I was sent to Fans
to complete my studies. During four years pars
ed in that great city, I retained the awkwardness
of my manners, the simplicity ot my language,
but I rapidly lost the ingenuousness ot my senti
ments. I returned to these mountains, almost
learned, but almost, incredulous in all those points
of faith which enable a man to pass his life con
tentedly beneath a thatched roof, in the society ot
his wife and children, without caring to look be
yond the cross above the village cemetery.
Whilst contemplating the love of W illiam and
Eva, 1 had reverted to my former simple peasant
nature. I began to dream’ ot a virtuous affec
tionate wife, diligent and frugal, embellishing my
house by her care and order. I saw myself
proud of the gentle severity ot her features, re
vealing to all the chaste and faithful spouse.
Verv different were these reveries from those
that haunted me at Paris after joyous evenings
spent with my comrades. Suddenly, horrible
calamity descended like a thunderbolt upau Eva
Meredith. This time I was slower to appreciate
the lesson 1 daily received. Eva sat constantly
at the window, her sad gaze fixed upon the heav
ens. The attitude, common to persons of medi
tative mood, attracted my attention but little. —
Her persistance in it at last struck me. ’ My book
open upon my knees, I looked at Mrs. Meredith ;
and well assured she would not detect my gaze, 1
examined her attentively. She still gazed at the
sky—my eyes followed the direction ot hers. —
“ Ah,” I said to myself with a half smile, “ she
thinks to rejoin him there!” Then I resumed
my book, thinking how fortunate it was for the
weakness of women that such thoughts came to
the relief of their sorrows.
I have already told you that my stndent’s life
had put evil thoughts into my head. Every day,
however, I saw Eva in the same attitude, and
every day my reflections were recalled to the
same subject. Little by little I came to think
her dream a good one, and to regret I could not
credit its realty. The soul, heaven, eternal life,
all that the old priest had formerly taught me,
glided through my imagination as 1 sat at even
tide before the open window. .” The doctrine of
the old cure” I said to myself, “ was more com
forting than the cold realities science has revealed
tome.” Then I looked at Eva, who still looked
to heaven, whilst the bells of the village church
sounded sweetly in the distance, and the rays of
the setting sun made the steeple-cross glitter
against the sky. I often returned to sit opposite
the poor widow, persevering in her grief as in
her holy hopes.
” What! ” I thought, “ can so much love ad
dress itself to a few particles of dust, already
minged with the mould ; are all these sighs was
ted on empty air? William departed in the
freshness of his age, his affections yet vivid, his
heart in its early bloom. She loved him but a
year, one little year —and is all over for her ?
Above our heads is there nothing but void ? Love
—that sentiment so strong within us —is but a
flame placed in the obscure prison of our body,
where it shines, burns, and is finally extinguished
by the fall of the frail wall surrounding it ? Is
a little dust all that remains of our loves, and
hopes, and passions—of all that moves, agitates,
and exalts us ? ”
There was deep silence in the recesses of my
soul. I had ceased to think. I was as if slum
bering between what I no longer denied, and
what I did not yet believe. At last, one night,
when Eva joined her hands to pray, beneath the
most beautiful starlit sky possible to behold, I
know not how it was, but I found my hands also
clasped*, and my lips opened to murmura prayer.
Then, by a happy chance, and for the first time,
Eva Meredith looked round, as if a secret instinct
had whispered her that my soul harmonised with
hers.
” Thanks,” said she, holding out her hand,
” keep him in your memory, and pray for him
sometimes.!’
“ Oh, madam! ” I exclaimed, “ may we all
meet in a better world, whether our lives have
been long or short, happy or full of trial,”
” The immortal soul of William looks down
upon us ! ” she replied in a grave voice, whilst
her gaze, at once sad and bright, reverted to the
star-spangled heavens.
Since that evening, when performing the du
ties of my profession, I have often witnessed
death; but never without speaking,'to the sor
rowing survivors, a few consoling words on abet
ter life than this one ; and those words were
words of conviction.
At last, a month after these incidents, Eva
Meredith gave birth to a son. When they brought
her her child—” William! ” exclaimed the poor
widow; and tears, soothing tears too long de
nied to her grief escaped in torrents from her
eyes. The child bore that much-loved name of
William, and a little cradle was placed close to
the mother’s bed. Then Eva’s gaze, long direc
ted to heaven, returned earthwards. She looked
to her child now, as she had previously looked to
her God. She bent over him to seek his father’s
features. Providence had permitted an exact re
semblance between William and the son he was
fated not to see. A great change occurred around
us, Eva, who had consented to live until her
child’s existence was detached from hers, was
now, I could plainly see, willing to live on, be
cause she felt that this little being needed the pro
tection of her love. She passed the days and
evenings seated beside his cradle; and when I
went to see her, oh! then she questioned me as to
what she should do for him, she explained what
he had suffered, and asked what could be done to
save him from pain. For her child she tear§d
the heat of a ray of sun, the chill ol the lightest
breeze. Bending over him, she shielded him with
her body, and w armed him with her kisses. One
day, I almost thought I saw her smile at him. —
But she never would sing whilst rocking his cra
dle to lull him to sleep ; she called one ol her wo
men, and said, “ Sing to my son that he may
sleep.” Then she listened, letting her tears flow
softly upon little William’s brow. Poor child .’
he was handsome, gentle, easy to rear. But, as
if his mother’s sorrow had affected him even be
fore his birth,the child was melancholly ;he seldom
cried, but he never smiled; he was quiet ; and
at that age quiet seems to denote suffering. 1
fancied that all the tears shed over the cradle
froze that poor little soul. I w ould fain have seen
William’s arms twined caressingly round his
mother’s neck. I would have had him return the
kisses lavished upon him. “ But what am I
thinking about ? ” I then said to myself; “is it
reasonable to expect that a little creature, not yet
a year uoon the earth, should understand that it
is sent thither to love and console this woman ? ”
It was, I assure you, a touching sight to behold
this young mother, pale, feeble, and who had
once renounced existence, clinging again to life
for the sake of a little child which could not even
say “ Thanks, dear mother ! ” What a marvel
is the human heart! Os how r small a thing it
makes much ! Give it but a grain of sand, and
it elevates a mountain; at its latest throb show it
but an atom to love, and again its pulses revive ;
it stops for good only when all is void around it,
and when even the shadow of its affections has
vanished from the earth !
Time rolled on, and I received a letter from
an uncle, my sole surviving relation. My uncle,
a member of the faculty of Montpelier, sum
moned me to his side, to complete in that learned
town my initiation into the secrets of my art. —
This letter, in form an invitation, was in fact an
order. I had to set out. One morning, my heart
big, when 1 thought of the isolation in which I
left the widow and the orphan, I repaired to the
white cottage to take leave of Eva Meredith. I
know not whether an additional shade of sadness
came over her features when I told her I was
about to make a longabsence. Since the death
of William Meredith such profound melancholly
dwelt upon her countenance that a smile would
have been the sole perceptible variation ; sadness
was always there.
“ You leave us ! ” she exclaimed ; “ your care
is so useful to my child ! ”
The poor lonely woman forgot to regret the de
parture of her last friend ; the mother lamented
the loss of the physician useful to her son. I did
not complain. To be useful is the sweet recom
pense of the devoted.
“Adieu!” she said, holding out her hand.—
“ Wherever you go, may God bless you ; and
should it be His will to afflict you, may he at
least afford you the sympathy of a heart compas
sionate as your own.”
I bowed over the hand of Eva Meredith ; and
I departed deeply moved.
The child was in the garden in front of the
house, lying upon the grass in the sun. I took
him in my arms and kissed him repeatedly ; 1
looked at him long, attentively, sadly, and a tear
started to my eye. “ Oh, no, I must be mista
ken ! ” I mnrmured, and I hurried from the white
cottage.
“ Good heavens, doctor!” simultaneously ex
claimed all Dr. Barnaby’s audience, “ what did
you apprehend ? ”
“ Suffer me to finish my story my own way,”
replied the village doctor; “everything* shall be
dold in its turn, 1 relate these events in the order
in which they occurred.”
On my arrival at Montpelier, I was exceedingly
well received by my uncle ; who declared, how
ever, that he could neither lodge nor feed me, nor
lend me money, and that as a stranger, without a
name, L must not hope for a patient in a town so
full of celebrated physicians.
“ Then I will return to my village, uncle,” re
plied I.
“By no means!” was his answer. “I have
got you a lucrative and respectable situation.—
An old Englishman, rich, gouty, and restless,
wishes to have a doctor to live with him, an in
telligent young man who will take charge]of his
health under the superintendence of an older phy
sician. I have proposed you—you have been ac
cepted; let us go to him.”
(To be continued.)
Woman is just what man makes her. Show
her that you admire usefulness more than tinsel;
that you wish for a companion instead of a play
thing; that you esteem beauty of the mind more
than personal beauty; and she will so educate
herself as to be worthy of your respect and affection.
A country trader who went to Boston to pur
chase a small lot of dry goods, being asked if he
did not want some half mourning prints, replied,
“ I rather guess I do ; the folks up our way are
just about half dead these days.”
‘saiisiii poete*.
TREES IN THE CITY.
BY HII, JOSEPH C. HUU
’Tis beautiful to see a forest stand
Brave with its moss-grown monarch*, and the prid*
Os foliage dense, to which the south w ind bland
Comes with a kiss, as lover to his bride ;
To watch the light grow fainter, as it streams
Through arching aisles, where branches interltce,
Where sombre pines rise o’er the shadowy gleams
Os silver birch, trembling with modest grace.
But ye who dwell beside the stream and hill,
Prize little treasures there so kindly given;
The song of birds, the babbling of the rill;
The pure unclouded light and air of heaven.
Ye walk as those who seeing cannot see,
Blind to this beauty even from your birth,
• We value little blessings ever free,
We covet most, the rarest things of earth.
But rising from the dust of busy streets,
These forest children gladden many hearts;
As some old triend their welcome presence greets
The toil-worn soul, and fresher life imparts.
. Their shade is doubly grateful when it lies
Above the glare which stifling walls throw back,
Through quivering leaves we see the soft, blue skies,
Then happier tread the dull unvaried track.
And when the first fresh foliage, emernld-hued,
Is opening slowly to the sun’s glad beams,
How it recalled] scenes we once have viewed.
And childhood’s fair, but long forgotten dreams.
The gushing spring, with violets clustering round,
The dell where twin flowers tremble in the breeze,—
The fairy visions wakened by the sound
Os evening winds that sighed among the trees.
There is a language given to the flowers, —
To me, the trees, “ dumb oracles” have been;
As waving softly, fresh from summer showers
Their whisper to the heart will entrance win.
Bo they not teach us purity may live
Atnid the crowded haunts of sin and shame,
And over all a soothiug* influence give,—
Sad hearts from fear and sorrow oft reclaim 1
And though transferred to uncongenial soil,
Perchance to breathe alone the dusty air.
Burdened with sounds of never ceasing toil,—
They rise as in the forest free and fair,—
They do not droop and pine at adverse, fate,
Or wonder why their lot should lonely prove,
But give fresh life to hearts left desolate,—
Yet emblems of a pure, unselfish love.
A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY?
SAVANNAH, THURSDAY JUNE 21, 1849.
AGENTS.
Mr. J. M. Boardman is our Agent for Macon.
Mr. S. S. Box for Rome.
Mr. Robt. E. Seylk for the State of South Carolina.
James O’CorsrisEß, Travelling Agent.
DEATH OF EX-PRESIDENT POLK.
Ex-President James K. Polk died at his residence, Colwn
bia, Tennessee, on Friday evening last, of cholera.
THE FOURTH OF JULY.
From all we can learn there will be a grand display among
the military on our national anniversary. The committee ap
pointed by the different volunteer associations are making ex
tentive preperations for a fete alike creditable to the occasion
and the reputation of Savannah.
Two volunteer companies of our sister city* Charleston—
the Washington Light Infantry, Capt. Walker, and the
Washington Artillery, Capt. Be La Torry—have signified
their intention of visiting us on that day.
It would be gratifying to our citizens, and would enhance
their pleasure to see every city and village of Georgia repre
sented by theirmilitary associations, as well as the farmer, the
merchant, the mechanic, and the professional gentlemen.
Occasions for visiting Savannah, apart from business, do not
often occur, and we hope they may avail themselves of the
present opportunity for recreation and enjoyment. We doubt
not but that the* Central Rail Road and Steamboat lines wil;
afford every facility and inducement for their transportation.
The State Temperance Convention meets at Marietta
on Wednesday, 27th inst.
THE CHOLERA.
The number of cases and deaths in New York per day arc
about the same os heretofore reported.
A few cases have occurred in Philadelphia and Albany.
At Richmond Va., some three or four cases occur daily -”
The disease is more virulent in the We3t than in the North
and East.
ODD FELLOWS’ CELEBRATION IN NEW YORK.
On Monday, the 4th inst., the new Hall of the I. O. O. F.
was dedicated by the Order. The following concise and graphic
description of the ceremonies we extract from “The People.”
THE PROCESSION.
The day, which in the early morning gave promise of rain,
cleared up before nine o’clock, and the various Lodge Rooms
of the Order were quickly overflowed with members arranging
banners, &cc. for the parade. Some forty bands of music had
been preengaged, and were properly distributed to conduct the
various Lodges to their places in the line. The line was
formed in Hudson-st. the right resting on Chambers.
The appearance of the vast line as it wound around the
Park and passed the Tribune Office was gorgeous in the ev
treme. With a brilliant sun to illuminate the splendid regalia
and banners, and sufficient breeze to give the latter their full
proportions, we doubt if a finer coup (V ceil was ever seen in
this country. There was, withal, a sensation far more pleasing
in this sight than in that of “an army with banners” whose
gorgeous trappings at once suggest murder, rapine, burning
cities and devastated fields. Here were thousands congreg 1 ’
ted for objects of real benificence, —instead of war, they
low peace—instead of murdering their fellows, they visit and
minister to the sick, bury the dead, support the widow an and
educate the orphan.
There were some sixty Lodges in Procession, retching *