Anne, who was Queen of England from 1702 to 1714, was not a woman of strong mind, and among other whimsies, she had that of frequently fancying herself indisposed, when no one else could discover that any thing ailed her. One day, a fit of this sort seizing her, she sent in all haste for her physician, who was then Dr. Radcliffe, founder of the Radcliffe Library, Oxford. This functionary replied that he would “be at St. James’ presently after.” But he not appearing so quickly as was desired, a second and a third messenger were sent after him in succession, whereat the Doctor, well acquainted with the princess (Anne was then Princess of Denmark only), asseverated, in terms more energetic than courtly, that “her highness had nothing but the vapors, that she was in as good a state of health as any woman breathing, could she but give into the belief of it.” This outrageous assertion so greatly offended the princess, that Dr. Radcliffe was immediately superseded, and Dr. Gibbons, his rival and antagonist, appointed in his place.

      It was not until the mortal illness of her husband, Prince George, awoke all the anxieties of the queen, that she consented once again to admit her offending servant to her presence; but the prince’s physicians all declaring that Dr. Radcliffe was the only person from whom help could be hoped for, her majesty sent her own coach to bring him to court, and was pleased to tell him that “no favors or rewards should be thought too much, could he but remove the convulsions she was troubled with in the cure of those that were racking the prince.” But it was too late—neither had the Doctor yet learned to flatter. He assured her majesty that nothing but death could release his Royal Highness from the pangs he suffered, and gave her further to understand, that there was nothing in the art of physic which could keep her consort in life more than six days from that period. The prince died accordingly, to the deep grief of the queen and her whole court.

      The exact fulfillment of Radcliffe’s predictions as to the precise moment when his patients would cease to exist, was a subject of frequent surprise, and gave his contemporaries very exalted ideas of his knowledge. The Duchess of Marlborough, applying to him to go to Cambridge for the purpose of visiting her son, the Marquis of Blandford, who had been improperly treated for the small-pox by the medical men in attendance, Radcliffe replied, with more bitterness against his blundering compeers, than sympathy for the suffering mother—“Madam, I shall only put you to expense for no purpose, for you can do nothing for his lordship now, but send down an undertaker to take care of a funeral, for I can assure your grace that he is dead even by this time, and that of a disease called doctor; but for which unfortunate malady he might have recovered well enough.” Nor were his conjectures unfounded, as was proved by the next messenger.

      The death of Queen Anne was almost immediately followed by that of her physician, and this last is said to have been hastened by the vexation Dr. Radcliffe suffered from a report that he had refused to attend the queen in her last illness. It appears that he had never been sent for by the council and authorized attendants of her majesty, but that a message had been sent by Mrs. Masham two hours only before the queen’s death. Dr. Radcliffe had received constant reports of her majesty’s condition from his friend Dr. Mead, and knew she was irrecoverable. “But had it not been so, the Doctor, says our authority, could not have attended through such an intimation.” By court etiquette it would seem that he could not, but the common sense view of the case would be, that the mere knowing her majesty to be ill was sufficient to warrant his attendance. Leaving these knotty points, however, we return to the fact, which was, that the Doctor’s life was so heavily embittered by threatening letters and attacks of various kinds after the queen’s death, that he no longer durst stir out of his house, and could have no peace within it. This preyed upon his health, already declining, and, “to conclude, this great and excellent man, who had made all manner of diseases fly before him, fell a victim to the ingratitude of a thankless world, and the fury of the gout, on the 1st of November, 1714, the Feast of All Saints: on that day being numbered with the blessed spirits, among whom sits enthroned our late sovereign lady, whose decease has been so injuriously and falsely laid to his charge.”

LIZZIE CARSON.

       Table of Contents

      Franklin, del. Davenport, sc.

      “Let me draw your chair nearer the window, dear mother; you will be better able to see your knitting, while I can sketch off my pattern on the pane.”

      It was a childish and cheerful voice that woke the silence of that little cottage, where mother and daughter had long sat absorbed in their different employments, and it may be in melancholy thought. But Lizzie Carson, though only fourteen, had learned the necessity of subduing her sadness in the presence of her mother, that she might not add one unnecessary pang to the already burdened heart of her beloved and only parent.—My little readers will ask what grief can they have?—if the mother is kind, and the daughter dutiful, and living in a cottage, which must of course be in the country, among the birds and flowers—why should they not be happy? Some of you, whose bright eyes are glancing over these pages, a present among many others perhaps from a fond father, can scarcely understand the many trials of the poverty-stricken and fatherless child. The constant toiling for mere sustenance—the anxious fear that illness may put a stop to their labors, and grim want stare them yet more steadily in the face—these and a thousand other ills, the pampered child of wealth can never know. Oh, if I could by any effort of my pen induce some of you, dear children, to think of these things—if I could persuade you how much happier you would feel in giving from your little stores, than in hoarding up all you receive, thereby engendering a selfish disposition—if, I say, I could induce you to be generous to the poor, I should think my time well spent in writing you this little story.

      The mother of Lizzie Carson having received a good education from her parents, all they had to give, accepted the situation of teacher in a little village school, which she left to become the wife of John Carson, a small farmer in the neighborhood. Upright and honest, he had yet too little energy, owing to ill health, to succeed in the world, and year after year saw them sliding back instead of becoming more independent.

      At last, when almost every thing had been sold to pay the rent, distress and anxiety did their work upon the enfeebled frame of the husband and father, and his plain deal coffin was among the last articles borne from the now desolate cottage.

      NEW-YORK

      D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY.

      Lizzie was at this time in her twelfth year, and accustomed as she had been from infancy to habits of self-denial, her manners were gentle and serious beyond her years. Deeply grieved at the death of her kind father, she yet strove hard to win back her mother to some degree of cheerfulness; and consulted with her upon their future means of support. It was at last decided that they should rent a room in a cottage not many miles distant from their former residence, where the mother hoped, by means of her needle, to keep themselves from want. But they were to be yet further tried in affliction, for Mrs. Carson, after obtaining work, was taken suddenly ill, and though able in a few weeks to get about the house, the rheumatism had settled in her hands, utterly

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