Passages from the diary of a late physician / by Samuel Warren, author of 'Ten thousand a-year'.

  • Samuel Warren
Date:
[1890]
Catalogue details

Licence: Public Domain Mark

Credit: Passages from the diary of a late physician / by Samuel Warren, author of 'Ten thousand a-year'. Source: Wellcome Collection.

Provider: This material has been provided by Royal College of Physicians, London. The original may be consulted at Royal College of Physicians, London.

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    ' Let me see his face I* slio whispered. She gazed at him for some minutes ; the child looking first at her and then nt niy wife with fear and surprise. ' How like, his father !' she murmur- ed ; her eyes filled with tears. ' Am I so altered?' said she to my wife, who stammered Yes and No in one breath. On my next visit I promised to bring Mr. Elliott witli me, and then I bade her good-niglit. ' Remember, doctor,' she whispered. 'I will,' said I, and quitted the room, almost repenting of my promise. Saturdai/.—l was preparing to pay some visits to distant patients, and ar- ranging so as to take Mr. Elliott with me on my return, about two o'clock, to pay the promised visit to Mrs. El- liott—when my servant brought me a handful of letters which had been left by the postman. I was going to read them in tlie carriage, when I was at- tracted by one of tliem, sealed with a black seal, and the address in Mr. El- liott's handwriting. I broke the seal with trepidation—which increased to a sickening degree when four letters fell out, all of them sealed with black, in Mr. Elliott's handwriting, andatldress- ed to—'Jacob Hillary, Esq.'—' Mrs. Elliot,'-' Henry Elliott,' and ' Dr. .'(myself.) I sat for a minute or two, witli til is array before me, scarce daring to trust myself witli my thouglits, when my wife entered, lead- ing in her constant companion, little Elliott, to take leave before I set out for tlie day. The siglit of ' Henry El- liott,' to whom one of these letters was addressed, overpowered me. My wife was beginniiig to inquire the reason, when 1 put lier out of the room, telling her that L had received unpleasant ac- counts cuncerning one or two of my patients. 1 opened tlie letter whicli was addressed to me, and read as follows : ' When you are reading tliesu few lines, kind doctor! I shall be sweetly Bleeping tlie sleep of death. All will be over; and there will be one wietph the less upon earth. ' God, before whom I shall be stand- ing face to face, wliile you roiid this let- ter, will have mercy upon nie, and for- give me for appearing before Him un- called for. Amen! ' But I could not live. I felt blindness —the last curse—descending upon me— blindness and beggary. I saw my wife broken-hearted. Nothing but misery and starvation before her and her child. ' Oh, has she not loved me with a no- ble love y And yet it is tlius I leave her! But she knows how through life I have returned her love, and she will hereafter find that love alone led me to take this dreadful stop. ' Grievous has been the misery she has borne for my sake. I thought, in mar- rying her, that I might have overcome the diltioulties which threatened us — that I might havcstruggled successfully for our bread; but He ordered other- wise, and it has been in vain for me to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows, ' Oh, my God ! that I shall never see my Mary's fac6 again, or But pre- sently she will look at our son, and will revive. ' I entreat you—it is a voice from the grave—to be yourself the bearer of thij news to my wife, when, and as you may think lit. Give her this letter, and also give, yourself, to Mr. Hillary the letter whii!h bears his name upon it. I feel that it will open his heart, and he will receive them to his arm<. ' I have written a few lines to my son. Ah, my boy, your father will be mould- ered into dust before you will under- stand what I have written. ' As for you, best of men, my only friend, farewell. Foi-give all the trouble I have given. God reward you. Tou will be in my latest thoughts. I have written to you last. ■ Now I have done. I am calm : the bitterness of death is past. Farewell. The grave—the darkness of death is upon my soul—but I have no fear. To- night, before this candle shall have burnt out—at midnight Oh, Mary, Henry.—Shall we ever meet again P ' H. E.' I read this letter over half-a-duzen times, for every paragraph pushed the preceding one out of my memory. I took the letters and stepped into my carri:ige, and post])oniiig all my other visits, drove to the lodgings of Mr. Elliott. The woman of the house was standing at the door, talking with one or two persons. ' Where is Mr. Elliott?' I inquired. ' That's what we want to know, sir,' replied the Woman. 'He must have gone out late last night, sir—and hasn't been back since; for when I looked into his room this morning to askabout breakfast, it was empty.' ' Did you observe anything particu- lar in his appearance last night?* I in- quired. ' Yes, sir, very wild-like ! And about nine o'clock he comes to the top of the stairs, and calls out, 'Mrs. , did you hear that noise? Didn't you see something?' 'Lord, sir,' said I, 'no! there wa'n't no sight nor sound what- soever I' so he went into his room, shut the door, and I never seed him since.' I hastened to his room. A candle- stick stood on the table at which he sat, with a pen or two, an inkstand, black wax, a sheet of paper, and a Bi- ble open at the place from which he had copied the words addressed to his son. But where was Elliott? What mode of death had he selected 1