Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 330, April 1843Various
Science
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 330, April 1843
Various
England -- Periodicals; Scotland -- Periodicals
The residence of Dr. Mayhew was about four miles distant from our
village. It was a fine brick house, as old as the oaks which stood
before it, conferring upon a few acres of grass land the right to be
regarded as a park. The interior of the house was as substantial as
the outside; both were as solid as the good doctor himself. He was a
man of independent property, a member of the University of Oxford,
and a great stickler for old observances. He received a fee from
every man who was able to pay him for his services; and the poor
might always receive at his door, at the cost of application only,
medical advice and physic, and a few commodities much more
acceptable than either. He kept a good establishment, in the most
interesting portion of which dwelt three decaying creatures, the
youngest fourscore years of age and more. They were an entail from
his grandfather, and had faithfully served that ancestor for many
years as coachman, housekeeper, and butler. The father of Dr. Mayhew
had availed himself of their integrity and experience until Time
robbed them of the latter, and rendered the former a useless ornament;
and dying, he bequeathed them, with the house and lands, to their
present friend and patron. There they sat in their own hall, royal
servants every one, hanging to life by one small thread, which when
it breaks for one must break for all. They had little interest in
the present world, to which the daily visit of the doctor, and that
alone, connected them. He never failed to pay it. Unconscious of all
else, they never failed to look for it.
The village clock struck eleven as I walked up the avenue that
conducted to the house. The day was intensely hot, and at that early
hour the fierce fire of the sun had rendered the atmosphere sweltry
and oppressive. I knocked many times before I could obtain admittance,
and, at last, the door was opened by a ragged urchin about twelve
years of age, looking more like the son of a thief or a gypsy than a
juvenile member of the decent household.
"Is Dr. Mayhew at home?" I asked.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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