on you. Mary Ping’s umblest dooty to Dr. G, and thanks him for the rekumendayshun.
I remane yours obeejantley,
Mary Ping.
It was a lovely September morning, when I and my portmanteau started in a cab for the G. W. R. terminus, having previously (myself I mean) wished my wife an affectionate “good-bye,” she having resolved to “stay at home with the children.” Poor little thing! she invariably bullies me when I’m at home, and cries her eyes out about me when I’m absent. I wiped, almost carefully, two or three of her stray tear-drops from my coat-sleeve, and heaving a sigh, took my journey into a far country, like a second prodigal son.
The said journey was uneventful, and would have been pleasant, but for an old woman, my sole companion, who never stopped talking except to eat, and who, when her only listener, wearied with the incessant noise, had feigned to fall asleep, amused herself with soliloquising aloud, as to “who he might be, what made him look so ill, and whether he had a mother.” What odd creatures women are!
It was late when I left the train, and there were still four miles to be traversed, under the guidance of the before-mentioned “sun,” who, after a bird’s-eye view of my portmanteau, had presented himself to me at the station, by pulling my coat-tails and calling out “This way, sir!” The walk seemed interminable, but I was at last safely domiciled in my new residence. The “gurl” received me in a manner that intimated a decided wish to get rid of me as soon as possible, and after producing supper went home with her brother. My wife had particularly enjoined me to “look over the house well” before I retired for the night, as no one could tell what might happen, if I didn’t. She evidently imagined, from the dark hints she dropped, that large numbers of what she termed “robbers” would be secreted in various corners, especially under the bed, their object being to murder me in cold blood, and possess themselves of my few articles of value. Feeling fatigued, however, I was mad enough to risk this great and imminent danger, thinking a good night’s rest would refresh me for the scrutiny. I accordingly went to bed at once, slept soundly till the morning, and then examined my cottage with a minuteness I will not describe here. Suffice it to say, it consisted of four small rooms, all neatly furnished and in an excellent state of repair. The scenery of the place was bold and striking. A noisy brook on one hand, the sea, like a thread of silver, in the remote distance, blue hills in every direction, fields and meadows. My old landlady’s was the only house within easy walking distance; so, with the exception of her “gurl,” who came for a few hours every day, I was as I wished to be, quite alone. The only circumstance of which I felt inclined to complain was the intolerable silence. For hours together I heard no sound but the occasional patter of my little maiden’s feet, or the noise of the before-mentioned brook. When I walked to my bedroom, every stair, in the profound stillness, went off with a loud report like a gun. Even a bird I had brought with me for company seemed, to my disappointment, too much impressed with the solemnity of the place to be able to utter a sound. The third day I caught it with its mouth open, but it shut immediately, with a kind of gasp, its owner evidently alarmed at the shadow of a sound which had inadvertently escaped. Feeling listless and weak, I spent most of my time out of doors, reading and dreaming. I was very near the little town where Coleridge lived when he wrote his sweet “Christabel.” Many an evening I have seen her, in imagination, stealing noiselessly through the trees, the
Clad in a silken rDamsel bright,
Clad in a silken robe of white—
a beautiful embodiment of the poet’s glowing fancy. It may be, in those very fields he first perceived her. It may be, in those very fields he clad his sweet thoughts in sweeter words, destined to entrance the listening world with wonder and admiration.
Well, I had been about three weeks in my “sanctum sanctorum,” when the “gurl,” whom I called Jane, walked into my sitting-room one morning in the middle of breakfast. I forgot to mention before that she was about sixteen years of age, gentle and kind-looking, but had odd methods of performing the most simple actions. When entering a room, for instance, she always gave a dart upon opening the door, as if some one had jerked her from behind, and then waited my pleasure with a look of astonishment, greater even than I experienced on first observing the peculiarity. In this particular instance, not having been summoned, she was doubly nervous, consequently doubly peculiar, and my little breakfast-table being near the door, she jerked against it violently, throwing it to the ground, and scattering the crockery in all directions. We picked it up together, and I asked her in rather an irritated tone what she wanted.
“Please, sir, there’s a boy outside wants to see you.”
“See me?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes, sir; I think they want a doctor, sir; mother told them you was one.”
“By Jove!” I exclaimed, starting up and frightening the poor girl almost into fits, “I’m a lucky fellow—practice down here! Couldn’t have believed it—something to do at last.” Under the influence of my ruling passion, I hurried out, forgetting my breakfast, and found the boy standing at the door.
“What’s your name?”
“Phil Wish, yer honor.”
“What do you want?”
“Please, sir, Ellen’s tuk worse, and her mother don’t think as how she’ll live much longer, she’s quite scrammed, sir.”
I wondered who “Ellen” was, and what “scrammed” meant, but contented myself with signing to him to lead the way. We walked on in the bright early morning, everything looking fair and beautiful. Phil whistled a tune which was quite unknown to me, and I walked alone, idly thinking, and occasionally plucking an ear of corn, and putting it to my mouth. The grass beneath