hard to be indifferent to it. She seemed to look to the power vested in me as the hand which was lifting her husband out of the grave; and she really loved her husband, though they quarrelled together nearly half their life. "O, Doctor," she would say, "and can you save the man? I've lived with him this twenty year, and he's always been a purty and a good man to me; (here her conscience a little troubled her, and she added,) sure he's been a little cross sometimes; and I too, (brushing away the tears,) but it was always just the same now as ever again after we got pleasant, only it was the better. O my jewel! do make him well, dear Doctor. Dear cratur, how he suffers. Do be quick with your medicines before death gets him. And you don't think he's got him now (lowering her voice). What does it mane that he looks so, Doctor?" I easily quieted her fears, and she hoped that, "with the blessing of God, she might have her man again sound and well." It was not an hour before she came for me in great haste. "Doctor, dear Doctor, do come; do run, or you'll not overtake him before he dies!" And so I ran a great many times at the beck and call of this woman. Well, Pat recovered at last. He was an industrious fellow, and had not a "power of children" about him; so I thought that I would give him a bill before his and his wife's gratitude was run out in repeated professions of it. I called a few weeks after his recovery. She welcomed me with her usual blarney, but it was not quite so profuse; and she looked as if a little suspicious that I had come on an unwelcome errand. I gave my bill to Pat, and as it was very moderate, he rose to get the money. His wife stepped forward and took it from his hand, and scanned it over, while he stood submissively waiting her bidding. I saw her lively face gathering darkness. At length she burst forth. "By the powers, the devil a bit of that do we pay. Its not dacent to trate poor folks so. You did not cure Mister Mahoney-sure you came to see him, but your medicines did no good, and he was not well till I gave him no more of them-sure he was not. you want to take my childers' bread-its not dacent of you, Doctor,-no, no, a devil a bit of money do you get here."

And now

Said I, "Pat, just cuff your wife's ears till I say enough, and I'll receipt the bill."

And at it he went; "You baste, (cuff, cuff,) what do you mane, (cuff, cuff, cuff,) to trate the Doctor so?" (cuff, cuff, cuff, cuff,-). She seemed rather submissive, retreating instead of dealing back the same, as she was able to do, and undoubtedly had done many a time. The blood soon spouted from her nose, and I said "hold on." I took the bill, and receipted it in full. It would be hard to tell which was the most pleased with the settlement, Pat, his wife, or the Doctor.

I know not how it is in our cities; but in the country, physicians do not get a proper quid pro quo for their services. Whether we consider the responsibility of their relation to the community, or the amount and kind of labor they perform, they certainly ought to receive an ample compensation. They have no time that they can call their own; that regularity of life which is so essential to comfort as well as health, they must in a great measure abandon, especially if practising in a scattered population; often, night after night sleep is utterly a stranger to their eyelids; and the worst of storms must be encountered, often, too, without reward. When prevailing disease spreads terror through the community, they must be at their post, and expose themselves to the pestilence under the influence of powerful predisposing causes-anxiety, and fatigue; and at all times there are anxieties and perplexities which the conscientious physician must feel, producing a wear and tear of mind which is worse than all the bodily fatigue that he is called to endure. We are not surprised, then, that it has been satisfactorily ascertained that physicians constitute one of the most short-lived classes of the community.

Certainly no pecuniary embarrassment ought to be superadded to all this; they ought to be saved from all hazard of encountering this trouble. And yet it is not so. The difficulty, it is true, is to be attributed in part to the remissness of physicians in collecting their dues. But why this remissness? If we mistake not, it arises from the unwil. lingness to pay, which they so often meet with. The consequent dislike to the business of collecting begets a habit of neglecting it. A very large proportion of their patients feel a less urgent obliga. tion to pay them than they do to pay others; and some, who pay all other bills with even a good degree of punctuality, never let it enter into their calculations to reserve any thing especially for their physician, so that he never gets his pay of them, unless he chance to apply for it when they have an actual surplus, that can be spared without inconvenience. I know not any other reason for this difference than the intangibility of the favor bestowed by the physician. If a man buy a coat of the tailor, or a barrel of flour of the grocer, he has a tangible memento of his obligation; for the coat is seen and felt on his back, and the flour is eaten and makes its sensible impression on the palate and stomach; but health restored is a thing of air, and the visits of the physician have left no memorial behind them that addresses the senses, and therefore are easily forgotten. For the same reason a man will not so easily forget his obligations to his physician if he has amputated a limb for him, as he would if he had attended him through a course of fever; his crutch or his wooden leg is ever present to remind him

of it. As the tailor and grocer can get their pay more readily before the coat is worn out and the flour is eaten up than they could a long time afterward, so the physician is more cheerfully paid immediately after returning health than he can be at any future period.

Farewell, gentle reader; I hope this first potion will act kindly upon you, and prompt you, if you are under any obligations to any of my brethren, to discharge them immediately, and in full; we like grateful patients, but cannot do without paying ones. W. H.

THE SEVEN FORESTERS OF CHATSWORTH.

BY WILLIAM J. SNELLING.

In the reign of Elizabeth, Sir George Vernon, commonly called King of the Peak, was the most powerful noble in England. It was said that he could at any time bring ten thousand men into the field from his own estates. His eldest daughter married Thomas Stanley, afterwards Earl of Derby, and Dorothea the younger was carried away clandestinely by the son of Manners, Duke of Rutland, who wooed and won her in the garb and character of an outlaw. The present family of Rutland are descended from this noble and romantic pair.

AWAKE, descend, my lady bright,
Come down, my fair, to me;
My eager charger neighs for flight

Beneath yon chestnut tree

The moon shines clear, O trust the night,
And fly with love and me.

"Thy bower is lone, the lingering hours

Must drag right wearily;

No home are Chatsworth's dungeon towers

For maiden lithe and free;

Then come, and grace our merry bowers
Beneath the greenwood tree."

The youth prevailed, to female ear,

By passion inly stirred,

Love never whispered vow of guile,

Or uttered foolish word;

But did the wisest thing appear
The maiden ever heard.

VOL. X.

Beneath the shadow of a yew

Six gallant brethren stood;

They were the keepers, tall and true,

Of Chatsworth's ancient wood;

And the seventh, a man of mould, sat there,
A wight of northern blood.

Quoth Robert Shaw, "I have watched his beat,
As was well a keeper's part,

And if hence the man unscathed retreat,
'Twere shame of the woodman's art.
He comes-now let his greeting meet,
Be seven broad shafts in his heart:

Said I well, my mates?" and his brethren, five,
Cried" content," and strung their bows,、
And fitted each man a shaft to his string;
But the seventh forester rose,

And said, "I was born in the north countrie,
Where bonny Yarrow flows,

"And fain would I seek my father's cot,
And see bonny Yarrow again;
But I wuss I may die in a foreign land
A death of lingering pain,

If, with my consent, a single man
By seven be basely slain.

"We will give him law, the forest law,
And may the castle warden

For him who a felon shaft shall draw
Put the justice tree a cord on!
The man that strikes a coward stroke
Makes a foe of Geordie Gordon."

The Outlaw came, at his belt a blade,

Broad, short, and sharp, was gleaming; And fixed on him were his true love's eyes, With joy and passion beaming;

Free was his step, as one that swayed
Among knights and lovely women.

"Now stand, now stand, thou bold Outlaw! The Vernon only smiled

To hear the Outlaw slew his deer

And his fair parks despoiled;
But what is Vernon's doom for him

Who steals away his child?

"Quit the lady's side, Sir Thief, and yield;

For we be seven to one,

To hale thee to our master's hall

Where justice must be done;
Or take the law we grant, and fly,
The gallow tree to shun."

"Now, by the sun that lights my side,
And the bright stars glittering o'er me,

She would scorn my might, my own true love,
And so would the mother that bore me,
Did I yield my sword to such strength as thine,
And six such churls before me.

"Away, my love; my days and nights

Will pass with mickle pain

Till I shall come to bear thee far

From Chatsworth's towers again.

Adieu, adieu, and think of me,
To tarry now were vain.

"The only grace I ask, ye churls,

That ye should do to me,

Is, hold your hands till I shall gain

The shade of yonder tree;

And thanks to thee, thou yeoman good,

For this thy courtesie.”

Forth steps the knight, with laughing eye,

To the towering chestnut fair;

Then hastily girds his loins to fly,

For his charger is not there,

Then waives a last farewell to his lady love,
And speeds like a bird of the air.

Fast vanishes wood, and bush, and briar,
Fast vanishes hollow and hill,

Till the morning sun beholds the race,
For the foe is behind him still;

But he halts at times or slackens his pace,
For he leads the chase at will.

Full ten score yards behind, or more,

The keeper's seven are spread;

He hath fitted an arrow to his string,
And drawn it to the head,

And it carries a death along on its wing,
And Robert Shaw lies dead.