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About A Friend of the family. (Savannah, Ga.) 1849-1??? | View Entire Issue (June 21, 1849)
♦ 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 *
