usual. She smiled sweetly upon her father, kindly upon the good old surgeon was pleased with all he did to please her, and approved and confirmed all the arrangements he had made. She preferred only one request, that the marriage might be as private as possible, and to that Doctor Kenmore readily agreed. "We will have nobody there, Margaret, but our ownselves and the lawyer, and your old acquaintance, Miss Harding. The people who came would only very mistakenly call us two fools, me an old one and you a young one; but we will not mind what they say—a nine days' wonder never lasts ten." Mr. Graham did not meet matters quite so calmly as his daughter. He seemed ill at ease, and often sighed heavily, and though Margaret, whenever she saw his spirits depressed, talked cheerfully of coming years, yet it seemed to have little effect. He had watched her mind and character from the cradle; and perhaps even though stricken with severe infirmity and enfeebled in body and mind, the parent's eye saw the daughter's heart. His corporeal health, however, did not seem to suffer; on the contrary, leaning on Margaret's arm, he walked slowly out into the garden. He went the next day, in his good old friend's little phaeton, to see the room prepared for him at Dr. Kenmore's house, and he showed himself pleased with all the arrangements made for his comfort, and still more with the attention paid to Margaret's tastes and habits. He approved, too, of the plan which Margaret proposed, namely, that after the ceremony he should remain for the rest of the day at the cottage, while she went to take possession of her new dwelling, and that early the next morning the doctor's phaeton should come to bring him to Brownswick, Margaret took care that an old and faithful servant of her future husband should be ordered to stay at the cottage to watch and assist him during that day, and he seemed so well that she had no fears. The day preceding the marriage was a busy one for Dr. Kenmore; he had a thousand things to do besides seeing all his most important patients. The good doctor himself was fatigued, though he was a hale, active little man, and his handsome, short-legged cob was completely knocked up. But that day went by, and the sun rose upon another. The little church of Allenchurch was, luckily, some way out of the village; there was no crowd, no gazers, and Margaret Graham stood before the altar with her father's old schoolfellow. It was a fine, clear Spring day, one of the first which had visited the world that year, and Margaret Graham wanted yet three months and a day of being twoand-twenty-Doctor Kenmore was sixty-eight. She had dressed herself very plainly, and in a manner to make her look older than she was, but nothing could conceal that she was very young, and very, very tiful. Her whole demeanour through the service was what any one who knew her well would have expected of Margaret Graham-graceful, quiet, grave; but it was very calm also. The trial was not then-it was over. beau The words were spoken, and she said "I will" distinctly; the ring was upon her finger-she was Doctor Kenmore's wife. The curtain fell between her and the past; the prospect of the future was clear before her --clear and cold! It was impossible for Mr. Graham to be present; the vicar of his former parish gave Margaret away, and she and her husband drove at once to the cottage where her father waited to see them before they went to March.-VOL. LXXIX. NO. CCCXV. X their home. They stayed with him about an hour, and then immediately turned to Brownswick. Doctor Kenmore had gone to the church in a pair of tied shoes, but as soon as he got home he resumed his large silver buckles, declaring that his feet felt cold without them. There were a great many things to be seen to and arranged about the house, so that there was plenty of occupation till dinner-time, for the good surgeon's habits were like his clothes, in an old fashion, and he dined at four exactly. A few minutes before that time, he pointed out to Margaret a large iron safe in his own little study, saying, "In there, my dear, are all my papers of importance; and they are valuable, for God has prospered my handiwork, and there are several mortgages and deeds; but, above all, my will, which I made a week ago in such terms as to render it effectual if I died before or after my marriage." Before Margaret could answer, the good doctor's footman came in to inform him that one Mr. Lifrid was there to pay his bill. The surgeon was inclined to send him away again, but the bill was a heavy one, amounting to nearly a hundred pounds. Mr. Lifrid was going away to London, and Doctor Kenmore went out to receive him. When he returned he had a roll of notes and some gold in his hand, but it was announced at the same time that dinner was upon the table, and thrusting the money into his pocket he led his bride to the table. Hardly, however, were the soup and fish gone when the bell rang violently, and Doctor Kenmore said to the servant, in a very imperative tone, "I will go out to see no one, let them go to Mr. M'Swine's, he's as good a doctor as I am, and thinks himself better." The man returned in a moment, but his face was very grave, and he whispered a word or two in Doctor Kenmore's ear. The old surgeon's countenance fell. "Order round the phaeton directly," he replied; and Margaret gazing at him inquiringly, said, 66 My father?" The old surgeon rose and took her hand, answering, "I will go and see him, my dear, and come back and let you know how he is going on." But Margaret answered, "I must go with you," and he made no objection. They were both clad for going forth, and standing in the passage with the door half-open, waiting for the phaeton, when a poor woman, dressed as the wife of a labourer of the lowest class, looked in, laying her hand at the same time upon the bell; but Doctor Kenmore stopped her, saying, "What do you want, Mrs. Halliday? I cannot see any body to-night -I am going out, Mr. Graham has fallen down in another fit." 66 Ah, poor gentleman!" said Mrs. Halliday; "I don't want to stop you, sir, and indeed I have no right; but Ben is very bad, poor fellow; he came home yesterday with a stitch in his side, and to-day he cannot fetch his breath at all, and is terrible red in the face and restless. I went over this morning to the Union to get an order for the doctor to see him, that is seven miles, and then I had to come here for Mr. M'Swine, and that is nine more, and Mr. M'Swine is out, and his shop-boy says he won't be home till ten or eleven, and poor Ben says he is sure he will die, and I am ready to drop." "And seven miles more to walk home," said Doctor Kenmore; “I Here, come will see your husband-he is a good man--I will see him. in and take a glass of wine; M'Swine is in, but he does not choose to go," continued the surgeon, muttering to himself, "this comes of farming out the poor to the lowest contractor-I will see your husband before I sleep, Mrs. Halliday," and he poured the woman out a large glass of wine, adding, however, some water, to prevent it from getting into her head. By the time this was all done the phaeton was at the door, and hurrying away with his wife and the servant (not without a regret that there was no place in the small vehicle for Mrs. Halliday), the good old man drove to Allenchurch, and arrived at the door of Mr. Graham's residence just as night fell. In The door was opened as soon as the sound of wheels were heard, and Margaret ran in, inquiring eagerly for her father. The woman replied that he seemed a little better, and she instantly hurried to his room. the meanwhile, Doctor Kenmore had ordered his servant calmly to drive the horse back to Brownswick, but not to go to bed before twelve unless he heard from him, and having given these orders he also entered the house and went to the room where Mr. Graham lay. As soon as he saw him and heard his breathing, he said, "Margaret, my dear, we must remain here all night; this is a case in which I cannot bleed him, for though it might produce temporary relief it would be followed by more serious evils. We must proceed more slowly but more safely, and I trust we shall succeed. He must be raised up and the head sponged with cold water; bottles of hot water to the feet directly, and if we can get some sal volatile down so much the better." All was done which the good old surgeon recommended; the stertorous breathing ceased in about an hour; Mr. Graham moved his right arm and put his hand to his head, and a moment or two after opened his eyes and looked round confusedly. The next instant he closed them again, and fell into a quiet and gentle sleep with easy breathing, and a face, which had previously been very pale and covered with profuse perspiration, but which now resumed its natural hue. "Now every thing must be kept quite quiet," said the good old doctor, in a whisper, to Margaret; "reaction will take place in a few hours, and then he must lose a little blood, after which I trust he will be quite safe. You sit by him, my dear, till I return; for I must not forget poor Ben Halliday, and there is nothing to be done here for six hours at least." "But you have sent away the phaeton, have you not?" asked Margaret, somewhat anxiously; and going to the window she looked out. "Never mind, my dear, I will walk," said Doctor Kenmore; "it is a beautiful evening, and the quarter moon there, just rising over the trees round the church will light me better than the sun. I shan't be long, for I know what is the matter with Halliday already. He has got inflammation of the lungs, and I must bleed him largely. To-morrow it will be too late, and M'Swine would let the poor fellow die,-so good night, my dear, for the present." Thus saying, good Doctor Kenmore departed, and Margaret sat down to watch by her father's bed-side, falling into a long, sad fit of meditation, which lasted for a considerable time. Hour went by on hour, eight, nine, ten o'clock came, eleven struck, twelve approached, and Doctor Kenmore did not come. THE NORWEGIAN LOVERS. BY CHARLES HOOTON, ESQ. O'ER the drift snows the wild wind blows, Fear not the deep, nor wild winds' sweep, Fly to the strand of another land, By earth I swear, and by the air, By this black sky and yonder sea, Vain is breath, and life's but death, While my heart's away from thee. No suns may shine with light divine, No needle point my passage true, Thou tyrant sea, I summon thee! Where'er we go 'tis peaks of snow This silent shore that hears no more My life is fraught with one sole thought : By day or night, in dark or light, Fear not, my Flower! this murky hour, Noble hearts can ne'er deceive! A GRAYBEARD'S GOSSIP ABOUT HIS LITERARY ACQUAINTANCE. Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit. CHAP. I. Richard Cumberland - Commencement of our Acquaintance- The Bill of Exchange and Conversation Sharpe-The Pic-Nic Newspaper, its Editor and Contributors, Mr. Bedford, Colonel Greville, Sir James Bland Burges, Mr. John Wilson Croker, Mr. C. J. Herries, the Authors of " Rejected Addresses," and Mr. Combe-Whimsical Jeu d'Esprit. THE Parthian shot his arrows backwards, as he fled from Death ;-it is my present purpose to do the same as I speed towards it, for at my advanced time of life the beneficent power that "rocks the cradle of declining age," must soon hush me into the long and calm sleep that knows no dreams, and fears not a disturbance. Recollections there are, fond and trivial though they may prove, which I would fain rescue from the grave ere it closes around me. Many literary men have I known slightly, and some few intimately; but, alas! out of the whole galaxy, how many have gone to join the lost Pleiad! My memory can only exercise itself by walking through a cemetery. It must subsist, like the ghouls of oriental fable, by preying upon the dead: such is the penalty that we Graybeards pay for prolonged existence. Penalty ?-I should have said privilege. What! Shall we regret the loss of literary friends, when we ought rather to rejoice that we once enjoyed their possession? The privation we share with the whole world; the acquaintanceship was an honour and a delight wherein we find but a few select participants. Oh! if men would but fairly measure their gains against their losses, and adapt their gratitude to the graciousness of Heaven, how rare would be their discontent, how general and how cordial their thanksgivings! A thing of beauty is a joy for ever, says one of our poets, and if this be true, even of a material object, how immeasurably more joyous must be the recollection of any mental beauty that has once charmed us. As we grow older, this retrospective gratification becomes spread over a longer and more prolific period, while the prospective term for which we may have to endure vexations and annoyances is continually diminishing. So many, indeed, and so various are the advantages of senility, that I have ever considered life as a sort of Tontine for the benefit of survivors. "How then!" methinks I hear the reader exclaim, "is it your purpose to present to us a prose Elegy in a country churchyard?" No, most excusable remonstrant! We are not about to deal with the illustrious obscure, either rural or metropolitan, but with men who have attained literary celebrity in their day, although a portion of them, unentitled to the name of master spirits, may, perhaps, be classed among the Dii Minores in the auctorial Pantheon. Others, we may incidentally notice who have never figured as writers, but have been so closely associated with the candidates for literary renown, as to warrant some passing allu |
