March 31.

John Hampden.

This celebrated man wrote a letter to sir John Elliott, on this day, in the year 1631, which is deposited in the British Museum.[116] At its date, which was long before “the troubles of England,” wherein he bore a distinguished part, it appears that he was absorbed by constant avocation, and attention to the business of others. The letter has been obligingly transcribed and communicated by our kind correspondent, T. A. It is curious from its style and sentiments, and is here printed, because it has not before been published. The commencing and concluding words are given fac-simile, from the original. It is addressed thus,

To my honoured and
deare friend Sr.
John Elliott at
his lodging in
the Tower.

Tis well for mee that letters cannot blush, else you would easily reade mee guilty. I am ashamed of so long a silence and know not how to excuse it, for as nothing but businesse can speake for mee, of w^ch kinde I have many advocates, so can I not tell how to call any businesse greater than holding an affectionate correspondence with so excellent a friend. My only confidence is I pleade at a barr of loue, where absolutions are much more frequent then censures. Sure I ame that conscience of neglect doth not accuse mee; though euidence of fact doth. I would add more but y^e entertainment of a straunger friend calls upon mee, and one other unsuitable occasion hold mee excused: therefore, deare friend, and if you vouchsafe mee a letter, lett mee begg of you to teach mee some thrift of time; that I may imploy more in yo^r service who will ever bee

Hampd.
March 31,
1631.

Command my service to
y^e souldier if not gone
to his colours.

The Sun in March.

We may now see the great luminary at half-past five in the morning if “we shake off dull sloth,” and set our faces to be greeted by his, at his rising, in the open air. Lying a bed is a sad destroyer of health, and getting up early a vast improver of time. It is an old and a true saying, that “an hour in the morning before breakfast, is worth two all the rest of the day.”

In “The Examiner” of the 31st of March, 1822, there is the following pleasant little story.

The Wonderful Physician.

One morning at daybreak a father came into his son’s bedchamber, and told him that a wonderful stranger was to be seen. “You are sick,” said he, “and fond of great shows. Here are no quack-doctors now, nor keeping of beds. A remarkable being is announced all over the town, who not only heals the sick, but makes the very grass grow; and what is more, he is to rise out of the sea.” The boy, though he was of a lazy habit, and did not like to be waked, jumped up at hearing of such an extraordinary exhibition, and hastened with his father to the door of the house, which stood upon the sea-shore. “There,” said the father, pointing to the sun, which at that moment sprung out of the ocean like a golden world, “there, foolish boy, you who get me so many expenses with your lazy diseases, and yourself into so many troubles, behold at last a remedy, cheap, certain, and delightful. Behold at last a physician, who has only to look in your face every morning at this same hour, and you will be surely well.”

Provincial Medical Practice.

Country people who are unusually plain in notion, and straight forward in conduct, frequently commit the care of their health to very odd sort of practitioners.

A late celebrated empiric, in Yorkshire, called the Whitworth Doctor, was of so great fame as to have the honour of attending the brother of lord Thurlow. The name of this doctor was Taylor: he and his brother were farriers by profession, and to the last, if both a two-legged and a four-legged patient were presented at the same time, the doctor always preferred the four-legged one. Their practice was immense, as may be well imagined from the orders they gave the druggist; they dealt principally with Ewbank and Wallis, of York, and a ton of Glauber’s salt, with other articles in proportion, was their usual order. On a Sunday morning the doctors used to bleed gratis. The patients, often to the number of an hundred, were seated on benches round a room, where troughs were placed to receive the blood. One of the doctors then went and tied up the arm of each patient, and was immediately followed by the other who opened the vein. Such a scene is easier conceived than described. From their medical practice, the nice formality of scales and weights was banished; all was “rule of thumb.” An example of their practice may elucidate their claim to celebrity: being sent for to a patient who was in the last stage of a consumption, the learned doctor prescribed a leg of mutton to be boiled secundum artem, into very strong broth, a quart of which was to be taken at proper intervals: what might have been its success is not to be related, as the patient died before the first dose was got down. As bone-setters they were remarkably skilful, and, perhaps, to their real merit in this, and the cheapness of their medicines, they were indebted for their great local fame.

The “Public Ledger” of the 31st of March, 1825, contains

A crooked Coincidence.

A pamphlet published in the year 1703, has the following strange title:—“The deformity of sin cured, a sermon, preached at St. Michael’s, Crooked Lane, before the Prince of Orange; by the Rev. James Crookshanks. Sold by Matthew Dowton, at the Crooked Billet, near Cripplegate, and by all other Booksellers.” The words of the text are, “Every crooked path shall be made straight.” The Prince before whom it was preached was deformed in his person.

A Seasonable Epitaph
on the late
J. C. March, Esq.

Death seemed so envious of my clay,
He bade me march and marched away;
Now underneath the vaulted arch,
My corpse must change to dust and March.

J. R. P.