THE “SWAMP DOCTOR” TO ESCULAPIUS.

Behold me, then, who late was a city physician of a week's duration, a veritable “Swamp Doctor,” settled down quietly, far from the blandishments of fashionable life, and awaiting, as when in town, though with not half of my then anxiety, the “first call.”

A veritable “Swamp Doctor,” to whom French boots and broadcloth must be obsolete ideas; the honest squatters thinking—and with propriety too—that a doctor who could put broadcloth over their stiles, must have to charge very high to support such extravagance. A charge to which 'it is almost fatal for a doctor to lay himself liable to.

A pair of coarse mud boots enclose my feet; copperas-coloured linsey pants occupy their proper position; a gaudy plaid vest with enormous jet buttons, blanket-coat and cap, complete the equipment of my outer man. Allow me to introduce you to my horse; for Charley occupies in my mind too large a space to be passed over silently when the “Swamp Doctor” is being described. Too poor to own but one, he has to perform the labour of several, which the fine blood that courses through his veins easily enables him to do; like his master, his external appearance is rather unprepossessing; but would that thy master, Charley, possessed thy integral virtues! Higli-spirited art thou, old friend—for age is touching thee, Charles, though thou givest no indication of it, save in the lock of gray which overhangs thy flashing eyes. Tall in thy proportions, gaunt in thy outline, sorrel in thy hue, thou hast proved to me, Charles, that there is other friendship and companioning besides human kind; thou hast shared my lowly lot for many years, Charles—together we have passed the lonely night, lost in the swamp—breasted many an angry stream, and given light to many darksome hearts, when fever-stricken they awaited my coming, and heard thy joyous neigh and eager bound. I did not know thy good qualities, Charles, when first I bought thee, but the years that have wasted away have taught thy true worth, and made me respect thee as a man. But I must return, Charles, to when we first took up our home within the “swamp.”

My residence is as humble as my pretensions or my dress, being composed of split trees, and known in American parlance as a “log cabin.”

A lazy sluggish “bayou”—as all the small watercourses in this country are Frenchifically termed—glorying in the name of the “Tensas,” runs, or rather creeps, by the door, before which—on the margin of the stream—stands one of those grand alluvial oaks which could canopy an army.

The day is rather sultry; a soft wind is moving its branches, on the topmost one of which is perched a mocking-bird; how wildly he carols, how blithesome his every movement! Happy fellow! the barn-yard, the ploughed ground, the berry-laden tree, all furnish him with food. Nature clothes him annually, and the leafy branch be neath shields him from the cold, when clouds and dark ness gather around. Happy fellow! he can sing with a light heart; his wants are few, and easily supplied. Would that the “Swamp Doctor” had as little care pressing upon him, that he might join you in your song; would that his necessities were as few and as readily provided for! Then, too, he could mock at the world, then, too, sing like thine a joyous strain; but poverty, youthfulness, the stranger's want of loving sympathy, chill the rising ardour of his song, and fling him back upon the cold wave of the world.

But away, care, for the present! away, forebodings of the future! Be as in former days, Swamp Doctor, joyful at heart—thou hast sung in strains as wild as that winsome bird's! Let the harmony that pervades the air paint for thee the future; and of bygones, “let the dead Past bury its dead!”

Thou hast sung, Swamp Doctor! Then tune afresh thy harp, and give one strain before thy “first call” shall still with its responsibilities thy harp, and clothe with sober seriousness thy youthful heart.

Sayest thou so, fair bird? then will I obey. My seat is beneath thy oak—thine I call it, for early residence hath given thee a pre-emption to it, surely—thy song is pouring through my heart, the wave at my feet is glistening in the morning sun, the soft branches overhead rustle and mingle in joyful greenness, yet I cannot sing of these fair scenes; not of them can be the burden of my song. Manhood had not set its seal upon my form; yet not fifty holds an older heart than beats within my breast. In despite of myself my thoughts are with my calling, with the sick and suffering who are yet to cast their eyes upon my face, and from it draw their bright hope or withering despair. What, then, so proper, since sing I must, as breathing a soft prayer to the patron saint of the healing art, and invoking his assistance in my future course?

THE SWAMP DOCTOR TO ESCULAPIUS.

Wrapt in the gloom of Superstition's age,

The trade of Chance and men of low degree,

Long lay the Art which teaches to assuage

The many pangs that mankind heirs, to be,

The Art which stills the maniac's fiery rage,

And bids the horrors of his vision flee;

Which soothes the pain its power cannot destroy,

And whispers hope, when hearts are reft of joy.

A Star arose amidst the heaven of gloom,

Which bended o'er this glorious Art divine;

It nobly strove the darkness to illume,

And place the Science on its proper shrine.

It shrank not from the strife, but dared the doom

That meets full oft the soul of high design;

It 'scaped this lot, was victor loud proclaimed,

And Esculapius with the gods was named.

Years have grown old, and Time's relentless hand

Has fallen on many a head of regal pride;

Full many a warrior born to use command

Has kiss'd the grave—that dark repulsive bride;

And many an arch whose fair proportions spanned

The heaving wave, has sunk beneath the tide;

Earth's mightiest things have triumphed over night,

Gleamed forth in splendour, then been lost to sight.

But not so thou; for thou hast never known

What 'twas to feel the waning love of them,

Who, once enchanted, drink in every tone,

Yet let Time chant their worship's requiem;

Forget how praises from their lips have flown,

And eager seek for matter to condemn:

None such thy friends—they prove with deed and heart

That Friendship is of Death a thing apart.

Oh! Patron Saint, sure thine's a brilliant doom!

We judge the future by the seasons past,

And judging thus, eternity will loom

Upon Creation ere thy name is classed

Among the things that were. Thou hast no tomb,

Time cannot say thy glory shall not last,

For it has mocked him from his earliest years

And as he darkens, still more bright appears.

Look on me, Patron Saint, with glance benign!

An humble follower, I bend the knee,

And pray thy knowledge's light may on me shine

In all its splendour and intensity!

So when in death my icy limbs recline,

My name lik'st thine may long remembered be

As one who sought the useful to pursue,

And ease the pangs his fellow-mortals knew.

Yes, let them write upon my lowly grave:

“A true Philanthropist is sleeping here!”

And I no other recompense will crave

To cheer me onward in my future sphere.

Such epitaph as that in truth to have

Were worth all wealth that man amasses here.

High Heaven!—Mock-Bird, the rest must stay unwrit!

“Come, quick, Mass' Doctor, ole Missus got a fit!”