every assizes, equal in amount to the voluntary subscriptions raised on the spot; which last, although sworn to as bonâ fide received before the presentment can be passed, are, in many instances, merely nominal, while the stipend, provided by the county, becomes an easy sinecure to a negligent, unskilful practitioner; or in some, though certainly fewer cases, the benefit of the institution is lavished in needless and indiscriminate profusion. "Take care you don't waste any of this medicine," said my sister, on giving a young girl some castor oil to carry home; "it costs money; if you were buying it at doctor's at....." from which place she had lately returned, " you would have to pay eighteen-pence "Sure then it's myself never bought

for a dose."

that same, for Mrs. B." the mantua-maker, in whose service she had been employed, "when she would be wanting it for the child, used to send to the Dispensary close by." "And did she not pay for it at the Dispensary?" "Sure nobody pays there."— "Well, but does any one who pleases get medicine for nothing?" "Yes, sure, every one who chooses to ask for it." "What, those who are rich enough to buy ?" "Sure, your Honour knows, if the doctor's wife happened to be under a compliment to any body, or anything that way, she would let them

have the medicine without asking them the price of it." This being "under a compliment", is, in truth, an expression of most comprehensive meaning, in the jobbing dictionary of Ireland. But, without a compliment, I will conclude my long letter with the warm-hearted benediction received, just now, in return for some trifling service of this kind. "May God Almighty, and the Blessed Virgin look on ye, and bless ye with the light of heaven, when there's nothing else wanting to ye; and that's all the harm that ever I'd wish yees."

LETTER XLVII.

DECEMBER.

You remember how much we were struck, while reading our favourite Mrs. Carter's Letters, by the attachment she shews to her situation at Deal. You remember how she delights in the sea-side, the sea air, the sea prospects; though that very situation exposed her to all the alarms of the French invasion, and brought continually within her view the frightful effect of winter storms upon a sea-coast. Do you not remember one letter, in which she mentions going to bed at night in sight of six large vessels riding at anchor before her window; and waking in the morning, when not one was to be seen-their wrecks were strewed along the shore! Since I have lived by the sea-coast, I think I can better understand her feelings. There is something very attractive, very interesting, in a situation by the sea-side; nay the very fears, and uncertainties, and anxieties that it gives birth to, seem only to endear it the more.

In the evening you see the sky thick and lowering, the south-west wind is gathering strength, and coming on in gusts; you look anxiously round to see whether there is a sail in the offing; you inquire whether the herring-fishers have put out their nets; or whether the kelp-boats are returned from their trip. Or you are awakened, perhaps, in the middle of a winter's night, by a sudden squall of wind and hail that seems to shake the house to its very foundation; you think of those who may perhaps be toiling against the blast, within a few miles of your own peaceful habitation, struggling against death, while you are sunk in repose; and before you turn again on your soft pillow, you breathe an earnest prayer for them, to Him who bids his angel

"Ride on the whirlwind, and direct the storm."

Then is there no interest in watching, through the thick veil of a November day, some poor vessel driven apparently at the mercy of the winds and waves? You take your glass, and strain your eyes to discover who and what she is; but you lose sight of her behind the rising waves, or some headland cuts her off from your view. One or two sails, which at first you saw set, are now taken in-then

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her crew are on board; yet you see her driven by the wind along a channel lined with rocks, right upon the shore. In spite of quick succeeding storms of rain, and a gale that scarcely allows you to keep your feet, you make your way down to the beach. You see that the vessel is almost close in shore, but makes no further way.-Has she struck? Will the crew escape? She has not struck-she has thrown out her anchor-but the anchor drags, and she runs so near upon a sunken rock, that the least shift of wind might wreck her. Yet she is not wrecked-the wind abates-a pilot is sent on board-she is brought safely into harbour-and you go home thanking God for those who may, alas! have no thought to thank Him for themselves.

Or, how would you like to have been awakened, as I was one morning last autumn, with the cry of, "A wreck! a wreck !" I soon ran, half dressed, to join my eyes to the eyes of almost all the other members of the family assembled at the window which offered the most favourable view. By the help of a glass, we could distinguish a large vessel, all helpless and dismantled, drifting on the ocean; sails, rigging, all gone; and nothing left but the stumps of her masts, and a poor tattered ensign, fastened to the top of one of them-an emblem of desolation.