between us. My doctor knows, as I have
said, that I have no great belief in pills and
draughts, and he does not insist upon my
swallowing much of that sort of stuff; but he
sends the little bottles and boxes as a matter of
form, and I receive them as a matter of form;
and so we consider that we have done what is
courteous towards each other as doctor and
patient. I get well, and we tacitly give the
physic the credit of the cure, though there are
all the little bottles and boxes in a row on the
mantelpiece untouched, except, perhaps, one or
two "taken" in compliment to the art; just as
one takes wine when challenged at dinner in
obedience to the rules of etiquette. But
though I have little or no faith in my physic,
I believe in my doctor. He gives me sound
advice, he tells me what to eat, drink, and
avoid, he cheers me up, and feeds me up,
and, what is most to the purpose, he gets me
well. I have always had the greatest respect
for his sense and candour ever since he admitted
the virtues of a certain dose which I prescribed
for myself. I was in fearful agony with
rheumatic pains, and, physic being in vain, I
drank off two stiff glasses of brandy-and-water.
The brandy allayed the pain. I told my doctor
so, and he said, "I have no doubt of it; brandy
is an invaluable medicine, if people would take
it only as a medicine."

But of course a doctor could not go about
prescribing brandy-and-water. If he did, he
would be open to the suspicion of being a
travelling agent for a spirit-house.

I should be quite unhappy if I did not find
occasion to call in my doctor at least once a
year. He gives me a turn, and I feel bound to
give him one. One good turn, you know,
deserves another. I go to the doctor's house,
and I find my book upon his table. He goes
to see my plays, he takes in the periodicals to
which I contribute. "When I have been in good
health for a long time, and the doctor says to me,
"That is a capital book of yours," or "I like
that article of yours very much," it goes to my
conscience. Here he is, taking me in regularly
every week, and I have not taken him in for
months. When I find the account so heavy
against me, I am almost tempted deliberately
to go and sit in a draught and catch cold. So
I was quite rejoiced the other day when that
attack of rheumatism came on. Now, thought
I, I shall be able to take in the doctor in daily
numbers, and praise his articles. Here is a
little work of his, each leaf containing an iron
powder, from the bi-daily perusal of which I
rise greatly refreshed. I make an exception in
favour of this vigorous work, and swear by
it, without any mental reservation whatever.

Thackeray, in one of the pleasantest of his
satires—the continuation of Ivanhoe—makes
his Wamba sing:

    Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
    Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
    Then you know a boy is an ass,
    Then you know the worth of a lass,
    Once you have come to forty year.

Now, as to the worth of a lass, I think there are
occasions when you may be brought to have a
full appreciation of that, before you come to forty
year. This is another of my pleasures of illness—
to be tended with gentle hands, to be comforted
with gentle words, to be pillowed on a soft breast
throbbing with love and forgiveness and tender
pity. Then, when my man's strength is gone, and
I am as weak and helpless as any child, I know
how selfish men are, and what a deep pure well
of devotion is a woman's heart. When we are
full of health and strength we go away from
home-women, go to our dinners, and our clubs,
and amusements, leaving them to their dull
domestic routine, sometimes keeping them waiting
and watching for us through the weary night.
They do certainly give us a bit of their mind
occasionally—they would be perfect angels if they
did not; but when sickness strikes us down, the
harsh word is hushed into a whisper of
sympathy, the angry eye melts with an expression
of tenderness and pity. And with all their little
injuries struggling with love upon their lips,
they do not permit themselves to utter more
than the gentle sarcasm:

"You cannot go to the club now, can you,
dear?"

The man who has never been ill, has yet to
become acquainted with some of the purest
pleasures of existence.

A ROYAL POET.

KING OSCAR of Sweden is one of the most
accomplished monarchs of Europe. His paintings,
principally depicting the fine scenery of
his country, are extremely beautiful. From his
poems—they now lie before us in three small
volume—we give the two following, translated,
at the request of the Queen-Dowager, by Mary
Howitt. They were read this last summer
before the court, by Herr Alberg, who gave in
Stockholm a series of English readings—the
English language being at this time greatly
admired and studied in Sweden:

THE HEART'S HOME.

Where is thy home? Thus to my heart appealing
I spake. Say thou who hast had part
In all my inmost being's deepest feeling,
Where is thy proper home? Tell me, my heart!
Is it where peaceful groves invite to leisure,
And silvery brooklets lapse in easy measure?
    No, no, my heart responded, no!

Where is thy home? Amid the tempests' anger,
And torrents leaping wild from rock to rock,
Where the bold hunter finds delight in danger,
And bleeding victims fall beneath his stroke?
Or is it 'mid the artillery's thundering rattle,
The clash of swords, the roar and rush of battle?
    Calmly my heart made answer, No!

Where is thy home? Perchance where tropic
   splendour,
In golden luxury of light, calls forth
The purple grape; perchance, 'midst roses tender
Thou revellest in the beauty of the South.