A Black Fee.
Dr. Robert Glynn, of Cambridge, England, who died nearly eighty years ago, was a most benevolent man, as well as a successful medical practitioner, with a large revenue. Mr. Jeaffreson tells the following amusing story about him:—
“On one occasion a poor peasant woman, the widowed mother of an only son, trudged from the heart of the fens (ten miles) into Cambridge, to consult the good doctor about her boy, who was very sick with the ague. Her manner so interested the doctor that, though it was during an inclement winter, and the roads almost impassable by carriages, he ordered horses harnessed, and taking in the old lady, went to see the sick lad.
“After a tedious attendance, and the exhibition of much port wine and bark, bought at the physician’s expense, the patient recovered. A few days after the doctor had taken his discharge, without fees, the poor woman presented herself at the consulting-room, bearing in her hands a large basket.
“‘I hope, my good woman, your son is not ill again,’ said the doctor.
“‘O, no, sir; he was never better,’ replied the woman, her face beaming with gratitude; ‘but he can’t rest quiet for thinking of all the trouble you have had, and so he resolved this morning to send you this;’ and she began undoing the cover of the large wicker basket which she had set on the floor. The doctor stood overlooking the transaction in no little concern. Egress being afforded, out hopped an enormous magpie, that strutted around the room, chattering away as independent as a lord.
“‘There, doctor, it is his favorite magpie he has sent you,’ exclaimed the woman, looking proudly upon the piece of chattering ebony. It was a fee to be proud of.”
A Heart’s Offering.
The gratitude of the poor country lad for his recovery did not exceed, probably, that of a young girl, as related in the Montpelier papers, from one of which I cut the following:—
“A young girl, fourteen years of age, named Celia ——, called at the hotel to-day where Dr. C., with his family, is stopping, and presenting him with a bouquet of Mayflowers, said, ‘I have no money to pay you for curing my head of scrofula, and I thought these flowers might please you.’ This was truly the offering of a grateful heart; for her head had been entirely covered by sores, from her birth, and the doctor had cured it. Another journal said, in commenting upon it, ‘This heart’s offering deeply affected the doctor, to whom it was a greater reward than any money recompense could have been.’ The doctor has the withered and blackened flowers and leaves pressed, and hung in a frame in his office, but the memory of the touching scene of their presentation will remain fresh within his heart forever.”