The Republican journal., 1873-09-04
~
Il Physicians Story.
lsN THEODORE TILTON.

EN THEODORE TILTON.
haze always promised myself to tell
this story at some time or other, and 50
now make ii my Christmas contribution to
the Golden Age
But first, by way OF little preface, let
me say that, being a physician (and,
great store by Sir Thomas Brownies ''Re-
| iieio Medci.'' Not that | believe in that
old writer's bigoted narrowness. But
is quacl>-just as IAN undevout astrono-
| lncr is mad" Perhaps it is my religion
alone that saves me from quackerv, for |
should be a knave without it. Certain it is
that the patient whose case | shall here
with report, suffered years madness Just
for want Of what | call religion; in other
lures sweet and necessary faith in God, in
man. and in woman or | might say in
woman, in man, and in God; for whatever
be their order, these are 4 trinity that no
human soul can afford to despise. This
is the prime dogma OF my creed; this is
my religion rs 4 physician.
And now for the narrative:
Wa rractcing at Cornwall on the
iitt'l'''ii Iltttt N'to tHcll SO illtttll
OF a SJmmcr-reSor rs it has become since.
Nel erthelcs~ as the late Mr. n p Willis
had made it somewhat familiar to New
ork readers. ii attracted good many of
them thithcr during the hot months 1t is
hlp~, the nearest point to the city at which
an invalid can altogether escape the prickly
rouglIncas Of the sea air.
One Saturday afternoon | received AT
my office a note written in u manly hand,
elegant and scholarly in expression, men
toning that its writer was i'll, but not
from bodily ailment, and putting to me
Macbeth question whether | could .min-
i,tcl 10 a mind diseased"
If so, said he. "call on 4 miserable
man at the Atkins House, and inquire for
Your, desperately,
ARCHIBALD GORDON"
/ called. He was sitting on the piazza,
picking a ti%er-lily to pieces himself the
greatest tiger, lAt a glance knew that it
wa the man W mo had sent for me. There
was an unnistakable haggardness in his
Iook-u5 if he had washed his face in the
waters Of Marah and left it streaked and
stained with cyncism, anguish and dispalr.
Sometimes the countenance turns traitor
and tell-taie against the soul sometimes
it @iVes up all the secrets of Il sorrowing
breast sometimes it respects no privacy
OF a breaking heart This mans misery
wa an open book.
y on are the doctor, SAID he
And YOU are the patient - said |.
Yes. he rejoined so far, then, we
understand each other but that's as near
a. We shall ever oct in our mutual acquain-
lance DO You think that one human
| creature ever had wit enough to compre-
| hcnd his fellow being? don't believe itn'
| he exclaimed, with bitterness in his EN-
| rhaai~ and scli-rcproach in his tone.
| After some nom-committal talk, | saw
| that must grasp him with a strong hand.
| He wa4 a man of will, brains and heart
| He had summoned me for counsel, yet had
! already made up his mind to have no con-
! lidence in my power to do him any good
| He was getting ready to rebel against my
advice. even before ! had shown any signs
| Of Offering ii 50 changed my tactics
and did NOT intrudc any suggestions upon
| him. nor even trouble him with any ques
tione about his case. | resolved that he
| should be the coniessor, not the inquisitor.
AT length, after having picked his flower
| to pieces and thrown away the Stem he
| lleyng what he said
You can do nothing lor a wretch like
me.
That's true | observed, land what is
| more, | shall not try"
| 'Why not?1 he asked, Us if my answer
| had taken an unexpected turn
.Becausc,' rejoined, ''it is plain that
| You have but one friend and one enemy !;
| il is plain that both these are one and the
same person; and it is plain that this
mischievous individual is yourself You
are the only man who can do yourself any
| good or harm lou are your own patient
| and physician. You must be your own
medicine and nurse"
He weighed me as in a balance for a
moment, and then remarked:
Il will tell you the devilish facts"
"No." replied, rather crattily, and sup
pressing my inquisitiveness. LAS your
secrets can be of no use to me, and as can
make them of no use to you, | think you
may as we'll keep them to yourself"
This nettlcd aim little, but pleased
him more, and brought him to the con-
tessonal at once.
Read this pocm," said he, handing me
a book, land while you are reading it l
will 60 up stairs and get you a Partagas
cigar Excuse me for a moment
The book was a blue-andgold Tenny-
son, opened at the turning down of a leaf,
the margins Of the two facing pages
scrawlcd over with pencil notes, and the
cover blurred and smeared as if it had
been laid on wet grass. The poem was
edward Gray and may as well tran
| scribe it here ut once:
| EnIv >Dn nDtN
Sweet Emma Moreand of yonder town,
Met me walking on yonder way.
And have you lost your hearth she said,
And are you married yet, Edward Gray
sweet Emma Moreand spoke to me;
Bitterly weeping turned away,
"SWcct Emma Moreland, love no more
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.
Ellen Adar, she loved me well,
Against her fathers and mothers WILL
To-day sat for an hour and wept,
by Ellen's grave on the windy hill.
Shy She was, and thought her cold
Thought her proud and fed over the sea;
Filled was with folly and spite,
When Ellen Adair was diving for me.