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Pcuoteb to Citcarturc, Science, (mi) Art, tljc Sons of (temperance, <Di)D jTcllorosljip, . Jilasonrn, ani) (General Jntelligciuc.
VOLUME I.
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LIVE THEM DOWN.
Brother, nrt thou poor and lowly,
Toiling, drudging, day by day,
Journeying painfully and slowly
On tliy dark and desert way?
Pause not —though the proud ones frown!
Shrink not, fear not, —dive them down!
Though to Vice thou shalt not pander
Though to Virtue thou shalt kneel,
Yet thou shalt escape not Slander,
Jibe and lie thy ssou’. halt feel,
Jest of witling, curse of clown—•
Heed not < itiur—live them dow.x.
Hate may wield her scourges horrid,
Malice may thy woes deride,
Scorn may bind with thorns thy forehoad,
Envy's spear may pierce thy side;
Ln! through Cross shall come the Crown i
Fear not foomen, —live them down !
ssissf i&ias.
THE VILLAGE DOCTOR.
bv sU'iiui o'lknucnuE.
( Continued from our lust.)
We betook ourselves immediately to the resi
dence of Lord James Kysington, a large and
handsome house, full of servants, where, after
waiting sometime, lirst in the an teroom, and then
in the parlours, we were at last ushered into the
presence of the noble invalid. Seated in a large
arm-chair was an old man of cold and severe as
pect, whose white hair contrasted oddly with his
eyebrows, still of a jet black. He was tall and
thin, as far as I could judge through the folds of
a large cloth coat, made like a dressing gown. —
His hands disappeared under his cutis, and his
feetwere wrapped in the skin of a white bear. —
A number of medicine vials were upon a table
beside him.
“My lord, this is my nephew, Dr. Barnaby.”
Lord Kysingtou bowed ; that is to sav, he looked
at me, aud made a scarcely perceptible move
ment with bis head.
“He is well versed in his profession, and ]
doubt not that his care will be most beneficial to
your lordship.”
A second movement of the head was the sole
reply vouchsafed.
“Moreover,” continued my relation, “having
had a tolerably good education, hS can read to
your lordship, or write under your dictation.”
“ l shall be obliged to him,” replied Lord Ky
sington, breaking silence at last, and then closing
his eyes, either from fatigue, or as a hint that the
conversation was to drop. 1 glanced around me.
Near the window sat a lady, very elegantly dressed,
yhocontinued her embroidery without once ruis
l[*gher eyes, as if we were not worthy her no-
Uce * Upon the carpet at her feet a little boy
unused himself with toys. The lady, although
first strike me as pretry —because
black hair and eyes ; and to be pretty,
Me <)r f U m y notion, was to be fair, like Lva
e^ ,l ’ ai ! d moreover, in rny experience, 1
i eau ty impossible without a certain air of
g°t ness. It was long before I could admit the
u woman, whose brow was haughty,
lib t and her mouth unsmiling. —
iv h t kysington, she was tall, thin, rather
.;♦ * 111I 11 c , racter they were too much alike to
w ,T h °! her well. Formal and taciturn, they
a together without affection, almost without
len< UrS k* The child, too, had been taught si
; h . e Wa lked on tiptoe, and at the least noise
?° k lrom his mother or from Lord Ky
k on Ranged him into a statue,
isn Wasto °hue to return to my village; but it
lost^W 00 ate to re £ ret what one has loved and
• My heart ached when 1 thought of my
\vf * ?‘ Y valle ?’ m y l^rty.
Iha / at * * earne< 4 concerning the cheerless family
6 en sered was as follows: Lord James Ky-
S had come to Montpelier for his health,
deteriorated by the climate of India. Second
son of the Duke of Kysingtou, and a lord only
by courtesy, he owed to talent and not to inheri
tance his fortune and his political position in
the House of Commons. Lady Mary was the
wife of his youngest brother ; and Lord James,
free to dispose of his fortune, had named her son
his heir.
Towardsme his lordship was most punctiliously
polite. A bow thanked me for every service I
rendered him. I read aloud for hours together,
uninterrupted by the sombre old man, whom I
put to sLeep, or by the young woman, who did not
listen to me, or by the child, who trembled in his
ancle’s presence. I had never led so melancholy
a life, and yet, as you know ladies, the little
white cottage had long ceased to be gay ; but
the silence of misfortune implies such grave re
flections, that words are insufficient to express
them. One feels the life of the soul under the
stillness of the body. In my own abode it was
the silence of a void.
One day that Lord James dozed and Lady
Mary was engrossed with embroidery, little Harry
climbed upon my knee, as I sat apart at the fur
ther end of the room, and began to question me
with the artless curiosity of his age. In my turn,
and without reflecting what I said, I questioned
him concerning his family.
“ Have you any brothers and sisters ? ” I en
quired.
“ I have a very pretty little sister.”
“ What is her name V ” asked I, absently glan
cing at the newspaper in my hand.
“She lias a beautiful name. Guess it Doctor.”
I knew not what I was thinking about. In my
village Iliad heard none but the names of peas
ants, hardly applicable to Lady Mary’s daughter.
Mrs. Meredith was the only lady I had known, and
the child repeating, “ Guess, guess ! ” I replied
at random,
“ Eva, perhaps ? ”
We were speaking very low; hut when the
name of Eva escaped my lips, Lord James opened
his eyes quickly, aud raised himself in his chair,
Lady Mary dropped her needle and turned sharp
ly towards me. I was confounded at the effect 1
had produced ; I looked alternately at Lord James
and at Lady Mary, without daring to utter another
word. Some minutes passed ; Lord James let
his head fail back and closed his eyes, Lady Mary
resumed her needle, Harry and I ceased our con
versation. I reflected for some time upon this
strange incident, until at last, ail around me hav
ing sunk into the usual monotonous calm, I rose
to leave the room. Lady Mary pushed away her
embroidery frame, passed before me, and made
me a sign* to follow. When we were both in
another room she shut the door, and raising her
head with the imperious air which was the most
habitual expression of her features : “ Dr* Barn
aby,” said she, “be so good as never again to
pronounce the name that just now escaped your
sips. It is a name Lord James Kysington must
not hear.” She bowed slightly, and re-entered
her brother-in-law’s apartment.
Thoughts innumerable crowded upon my mind.
This Eva, whose name was not to be spoken,
could it be Eva Meredith? Was* she Lord Ky-
daughter-in-law ? Was lin the house
of William’s father? I hoped, but still I doubted ;
for, after all if there was but one Eva in the
world for me, in England the name was, doubt
less by no means uncommon. -But the thought
thru I was perhaps with the family of Eva Mere
dith living with the woman who robbed the
widow and the orphan of their inheritance, this
thought was present to me by day and by night.
Ln my dreams I beheld the return of E\a anc ler
son to the paternal residence, in consequence of
the pardon I had implored and obtained for them.
But when I raised my eyes, the cold impassible
physiognomy of Lord Kysington froze all the
hopes of my heart. I applied myself to the ex
amination of that countenance as if I had never
SAVANNAH, GA.. THURSDAY, JUNE 23, 1849.
before seen it. ; I analysed its features and lines
to find a trace of sensibility. I sought the heart
Iso gladly would have touched. Alas! I found
it not. But Iliad so good a cause that I was not
to be discouraged. “Pshaw!” I said to myself,
“ what matters the expression of the face’/ why
heed the external envelope ? May not the darkest
coffer contain bright gold ? Must all that is within
us reveal itself at a glance ? Does not every
man of the world learn to separate his mind and
his thoughts from the habitual expression of his
countenance ? ”
I resolved to clear up my doubts, but how to do
so was the difficulty. Impossible to question Lady
Mary or Lord James; the servants were French,
and had but lately come to the house. An Eng
lish valet-de-chatnbre had just been despatched
to London on a confidential mission, i directed
mv investigations to Lord James Kvsington.—
The severe expression of his countenance ceased
to intimidate me. 1 said to myself: “When the
forester meets with a tree apparently dead, he
strikes his axe into the trunk to see whether sap
does not still survive beneath the withered bark ;
in like manner will 1 strike at the heart, and see
whether life be not somewhere hidden.” And 1
only waited an opportunity. •
To await an opportunity with impatience is to
accelerate its coming. Instead of depending on
circumstances we subjugate them. One night
Lord James sent for me. He was in pain. Af
ter administering the necessary remedies, I re
mained by his bedside* to watch their effect.—
The room was dark; a single wax candle showed
the outlines of objects, without illuminating them.
The pale and noble head of Lord James was
thrown back upon his pillow. His eves were
shut, according to his custom when suffering, as if
he concentrated his moral energies within him. —
He never complained, hut lay stretched out in his
bed—straight and motionless as a king’s statue
upon a marble tomb. In general he got somebody
to read to him, hoping either to distract his
thoughts from his pains, or to be lulled to sleep
by the monotonous sound.
Upon that night he made a sign to me with his
meagre hand to take a book and read, but 1
sought one in vain ; books and newspapers had
all been removed to the drawing-room ; the doors
were locked, and unless I rung and aroused the
house, a book was not to be had. Lord James
made a gesture of impatience, then one of resig
nation, and beckoned me to resume my seat by
his side. We remained for some time without
sneaking, almost in darkness, the silence broken
only by the ticking of the clock. Sleep came not.
Suddenly Lord James opened his eyes.
“ Speak to me,” he said. “ Tell me something ;
whatever you Lke.”
His eyes closed, and he waited. My heart
beat violently. The moment had come.
“ My Lord,” said I, “ I greatly fear I know
nothing that will interest your lordship. 1 can
speak but of myself, of the events of my life—
and the history of the great ones of the earth
were necessary to fix your attention. What can
a peasant have to say, who has liv-ed contented
with little, in obscurity and repose ? I have
scarcely quitted my village, my lord. It is a pretty
mountain hamlet, where even those not born
there might well be pleased to dwell. Near it is a
country house, which I have known inhabited by
rich people, who could have left it if they had’
liked, but who remained, because the woods were
thick, the paths bordered with flowers, the streams
bright and rapid in their rocky beds. Alas ! they
were two in that house—and soon a poor woman
was there alone, until the birth of her son. . My
lord, she is a country woman of yours, an English
woman, of beauty such as is seldom seen either
in England or in France; good as, besides her,
only the angels in heaven can be! fche had jut
completed her eighteenth year when I left her,
fatherless, motherless, and already widowed of an
adored husband; she is feeble, delicate, almost
ill, and yet she must live:—who would protect
that little child? CJli! my lord there are very
unhappy beings in this world! To be unhappy
in middle life or old age is doubtless sad, but
still you have pleasant memories of the past to
remind you that you have had your day, your
share, your happiness ; but to weep before you
are eighteen is far sadder, for nothing can bring
back the dead, and the future is dim with tears.
Poor creature ! We see a beggar by the road
side suffering from cold and hunger; and we
give him alms, and look upon him without pain,
because it is in our power to relieve him ; but this
unhappy, broken-hearted woman, the only relief
to give her would be to love her—and none are
there to bestow that alms upon her!
“ Ah ! my lord if you knew what a fine young
man her husband was ! hardly three and twenty;
noble countenance, a lofty brow—like your own,
intelligent and proud ; dark blue eyes, rather pen
sive, rather sad. 1 knew why they were sad.—
He ioved his father and his native land, and he
was doomed to exile from both! And* how
good and grateful was his smile ! Ah ! how he
would have smiled at his little child had he lived
long enough to see it. He loved it even before.it
was born ; he took pleasure in looking at the cra
dle that awaited it. Poor, poor young man I
I saw him on a stormy night, in the dark forest,
stretched upon the wet earth, motionless, lifeless,
his garments covered with mud, his Temple shat
tered, blood escaping in torrents from bis wound.
I saw—alas! I saw’ William—”
“ You saw my son’s death ! ” cried Lord James,
raising himself like a spectre in the midst of his
pillows, and fixing me with eves so distended and
piercing, that I started back alarmed. But not
withstanding the darkness, I thought I saw a tear
moisten the old man’s eyelids.
4i My lord,” I replied, “1 was present at your
son’s death, and at the birth of his child! ”
‘i'here was an instant’s silence, Lord James
looked steadfastly at me. At last he made a
movement; his trembling hand sought mine,
pressed it, then his fingers relaxed their grasp,
•and he fell back upon the bed.
“Enough, sir, enough; 1 suffer, I need repose.
Leave *ine.”
I bowod, and retired.
Before I was out of the room, Lord James had
relapsed into his habitual position , into silenco
and immobility.
1 will not detail to you my numerous and re
spectful representationsto Lord James Kysing
ton, his indecision and secret anxiety, and how
at last his paternal love, awakened by the details
of the horrible catastrophe, his pride of race, re
vived by the hope of leaving an heir to his name,
triumphed over his bitter resentment. Three
months after the scene 1 have described, I awaited,
on the threshold of the liotise at Montpellier, the
arrival of Eva Meredith and her son, summoned
to. theirfamily and tp the resumption of ail their
rights. It was a proud and happy day for me.
Lady Ma rv, perfect mistress of herself, had
concealed her joy when family dissensions had
made her son iu ir to her wealthy brother. Still
better did she conceal her regret and anger when
Eva Meredith, or rather Eva Kysington, was re
conciled with her father-in-law. Not a cloud ap
peared upon Lady Mary’s marble forehead. But
beneath this external calm how many evil pas
sions fermented !
When ttie carriage of Eva Meredith (t will
still mve her that name) entered the court-yard of
the house, i was there to receive her. Eva held
out her hand—“ Thanks, thanks, tny friend ! ”
she murmured. She wiped the tears that trem
bled iu her eyes, and taking her boy, now three
years old, and of great beauty, by the hand, she
entered her new w a bode. “1 am afraid ! ” she
said. She was still the weak woman, broken by
addiction, pale, sad, and beautiful, incredulous of
earthly hopes, but firm in heavenly faith. I
| (Continued cm. fourth page.)
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NUMBER 17.