Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/18

31, 1859.]  take a little advice from an older man. Jane was quite right, sir: you killed her.”

“Oh! Dr. Burnett!”

“You did, sir. Mind, I don’t blame you for her death; it was a boy’s trick, and the only blame attaching to you is for that trick; but look at its results. But for that, she would have been alive now; not happy, but hopeful. You destroyed her hope, and killed her. I know you’ll say that it had nothing to do with his fate, and so on; but remember that we are different, sir, one from another. That turning back of his, as he went away, had no effect on your mind, nor would it have on mine, but she was so constituted that anything of the kind would exercise a powerful influence. Superstitious to a fault, still there was the fact, and it was like a death-blow to her when that happened. There’s much to be learned yet, sir, of even our physical differences: one man is poisoned by what another man takes with impunity. So in our mental differences, there’s much more to be learned—very much more; and until this knowledge is ours, we must deal with facts, faults or no faults. The superstition is silly—puerile; still it existed, and should at that time have been respected. She died through it, sir, I firmly believe. Come and see me any time you like: I shall always be glad to see a friend of hers.”

He offered his hand, and as William felt its grasp, he knew how small was his share of blame in the doctor’s eyes.

William is, at this time, regarded as one of the most considerate of men.

One is in the midst of eternal snows and ice,—perhaps looked upon for the last time. The other! Has William it still? If not—Where is the other? 2em

had been the lion of the metropolis for more than a week, and it had been my rare good fortune to see much of him. He came here for the purpose of examining the Washington papers in the department of state, and he was the guest of his friend, the Honourable John P. Kennedy. My official position in the department had made it my duty to treat him with attention there; I met him also in company, and had a long talk with him in my quiet little library; and was his guide and companion in a visit to Arlington. That my head should therefore have been full of ideas gathered from his delightful conversation was quite natural, and the fact that he once wrote to a friend a personal letter about Sir Walter Scott would seem to sanction my recording them for your gratification; and, according to my promise, therefore, I send you a few paragraphs bearing upon his own private habits and opinions. The title of his essay was “Abbotsford,” and the subject of mine shall be “A day with Washington Irving,” for I