'Tis midnight once more, But the baron don't snore, But lies wide awake, while he cons o'er and o'er The most furious of dins Lord! was ever man punished so much for his sins? And cries" Damn them for tithes ; While his lady, half dead With fright, pulls the counterpane over her head, But seemingly not in the least degree loth The reply to the Knight Is in truth more polite Than what from his question one might think his right, Namely" Orthon's my name, And I hitherward came, "For the Clerk of Corasse retribution to claim. "He vows that your conduct's excessively scurvy. "And bids me to knock the whole place topsy turvy, "Till such time as you choose, "To 'come down' with your dues, "And the Clerk is a man that I may not refuse." "Ho, ho!" says the knight, "so 'tis this little matter "That makes you create such a deuce of a clatter; "But Orthon, I say, "Can you stoop to obey, "A chap like that Clerk in so shabby a way. "A spirit of spunk, "To be slave to a monk "My excellent friend, are you foolish, or drunk? "Just now, answer me flat "Will you give up, old fellow, this churlish divine, "And instead of his service be entered in mine?" This speech of the Knight, The friendship of Orthon conciliates quite; To be thenceforth his slave Then whispers three words, which I'm bound not to write, Night after night, At the baron's bed-side would at midnight alight; What took place far and near; And often by these means the baron would hear, "Two days since," (as the case Might be,) an intrigue, or a battle, or chase. And throughout the whole province his quick information, Now the baron would oft intelligence send The value of which was not frequently slight; By what sort of express He hears all his news-and he cannot repress Who the deuce is the scout, Who can manage to travel so swiftly about, Everywhere 'neath the sun; And one night, as the baron and he sit together, Being both rather mellow, From old calcavella, He learns from the Knight The whole tale of the sprite, And exclaims-"'Pon my life, you're a dd lucky wight! "But what sort is this creature, "In figure and feature, "Who acts in a way so exceeding polite?" appear, "Egad!" says the baron, "though strange it When next in your way he may happen to throw himself, "My friend, you'll oblige me by making him show himself." "Very well," says Lord Raymond; and that very night, To the baron's bed-side comes the comical sprite. He seems somewhat distressed At the baron's request; But the latter on pleasing his guest appears bent. "On your quitting your room; "To insult me in any way-mark me, my friend- At eight the baron jumps out of bed, He pulls off his head, And says, with a sort of self-satisfied grunt- "Those vassals of mine have no genius for tillage. "Who can blame the poor brutes, "For disliking such very unwarlike pursuits. "Thank heaven, we're surrounded by capital neighbours, "And can easily get at the fruit of their labours. "Work is very distressing, (He now has done dressing And quitted his room) " and 'tis really a blessing, “And as ugly as thin; "To a nobleman's place. "Hallo! Hugh, set the dogs on that rascally brute !" But 'twere idle pursuit, For the sow, although mute Till the order was given-with a wonderful cry In the earth or the air, But 'tis perfectly clear she no longer is there, The Lord of Corasse for a moment reflects, That that lean-looking sow In a manner so queer, Was none else than the spirit, and great is his fear For night follows night, But they bring not the sprite, The Lord of Corasse grows dispirited quite, By a gradual decay, And before the year's end is converted to clay. A beautiful tomb, as a mark of respect, Where stretched at full length, looking up to the skies, And close to his feet-one may see it there now- And the sow has got rid of two-thirds of her snout. But one line can be traced Of inscription, and none seems to have been erased, Cy. git Raymond, le dernier Seigneur de Corasse! The moral that lurks in this story is deep, If DR. GRAVES ON CLINICAL MEDICINE. GEORGE THE FOURTH, no mean opinion on such a subject, asserted on one occasion that the conversation of a first-rate physician was not only "the most instructive but most agreeable of any man's." We would beg to extend the praise to their writings, which are ever marked by striking and original views, and conspicuous for a knowledge of mankind, based on very different grounds from the mere chance collisions of society. No other class, whose minds are trained by a long and arduous course of labour, have so many opportunities of mixing with their fellow-men of every grade in life. The clergyman is limited by the limited by the very nature of his calling, to one species of intercourse with his flock. Worldly subjects and daily interests he is almost forbidden to touch upon or mingle with; his efforts more directed to withdraw the minds of his hearers from passing events, and fix them upon things of deeper and higher importance, he has less sympathy with sorrows and cares which spring from sources he undervalues, and therefore his knowledge of character-his insight into the human heart, will, by the very practice of his profession, be restricted. The lawyer, whose life is a continued mental struggle either in the detection and assertion, or in the concealment of truth, looks on the world but as one wide arena of litigation. Habits of distrust and suspicion tinge and colour to him every relation of life, and he arranges mankind into the two classes of plaintiff and defendant, with an intuitive readiness which enables him to take bold and striking views of society, but with the finer traits of human feeling-with the more minute springs that stir his heart, his occupation bring him into no contact. The very ingenuity to which he has trained his mind-the very sophistry which it is his daily habit to exercise, are so many causes of perversion to his judgment. Less eager in the pursuit of truth than desirous to fashion and mould it when found to his own peculiar purposes, he rejects the good that is not adapted to his views, and only unveils falsehood when it may be serviceable to his case. His discrimination of right and wrong will always be made more with reference to legal than moral guilt or innocence-and he whose occupation it is, by every trick of ingenuity, and every subtlety to induce his hearers to adopt his views will often find himself a special pleader to his own heart. The instincts of a profession are indeed narrowing and humiliating things, the technicals themselves of any art form a kind of post-and-rail fence by which a man is separated from his fellows; and, unhappily, professional eminence is in most cases only attainable by that isolation which cuts him off from all the world. This is less the case with the physician than with the barrister. Daily intercourse with persons of every class and rank in life, from the palace to the cottage, render him, however little plastic may be his nature, "all things to all men. The distant respect with which he approaches one patient will be changed into the tone of patronizing assurance with another-the courtier-like delicacy with which he investigates the shadowy symptoms of some almost visionary malady will be converted into the straightforward and acute cross-examination of a lawyer, when detecting the subtle difficulty of a more important case. He is alternately the encourager, the dissuader, and the comforter of his patients; and his character, moulded by the very exigency of his position, will put him in relation with feelings and sympathies of every varying condition in life. The confidant of his sovereign to-day-to-morrow the watcher by the humble bedside of apeasant. That any man so placed should obtain a deep insight into the world and its ways, is not surprising; but when we add to these advantages the fruit of a study whose object it is to detect the secret working of the mind in every A System of Clinical Medicine. By Robert James Graves, M.D., M.R.I.A., &c. &c. 8vo. Dublin: Fannin and Co. 1843. |