  ANECDOTES OF PHYSICIANS. “I find, Dick, that you are in the habit of taking my best jokes, and passing them off as your own. Do you call that the conduct of a gentleman?” “To be sure, Tom. Why, a true gentleman will always take a joke from a friend.” A WANT SUPPLIED.—ORIGINAL ANECDOTES OF ABERNETHY.—A LIVE IRISHMAN.—MADAM ROTHSCHILD.—LARGE FEET.—A SHANGHAI ROOSTER.—SPREADING HERSELF.—KEROSENE.—“SALERATUS.”—HIS LAST JOKE.—AN ASTONISHED DARKY.—OLD DR. K.’s MARE.—A SCARED CUSTOMER.—“WHAT’S TRUMPS?”—“LET GO THEM HALYARDS.”—MEDICAL TITBITS.—MORE MUSTARD THAN MEAT.—“I WANT TO BE AN ANGEL.”—TOOTH-DRAWING.—DR. BEECHER VS. DR. HOLMES.—STEALING TIME.—CHOLERA FENCED IN.—“A JOKE THAT’S NOT A JOKE.”—A DRY SHOWER-BATH.—PARBOILING AN OLD LADY. “There would be no difficulty in multiplying anecdotes attributed to Abernethy (or other celebrated physicians) ad libitum, but there are three objections to such a course. First, there are many told of him which never happened; others, which may possibly have occurred, you find it impossible to authenticate; and lastly, there is a class which, if they happened to Dr. Abernethy, certainly happened to others before he was born. In fact, when a man once gets a reputation of doing or saying odd things, every story in which the chief person is unknown or unremembered, is given to the next man whose reputation for such is remarkable.”—Memoirs of Dr. Abernethy, by George Macilwain, F. R. C. S., etc., etc. Notwithstanding the great number of authentic anecdotes of physicians which might be collected together, Mr. Campbell, the experienced antiquarian bookseller, of Boston, The following original anecdote of the great English surgeon I obtained verbally from Mr. Sladden, of Chicago:— “My grandmother once visited Dr. Abernethy, with her eldest son, my uncle, living in London, to consult the great physician respecting an inveterate humor of the scalp, with which the child was afflicted. “There were a great many patients in waiting, and when it came my grandmother’s turn, she walked up to the great man, and removing the boy’s cap, presented the case for his inspection in silence. He took a quick glance at the humory head, turned to the old lady, and said,— “‘Madam, the best thing I can recommend for that disease is a plenty of warm water and soap. And, by the way, if that don’t remove it, the next best thing is to apply freely soap and warm water. Five guineas, if you please, ma’am.’ “As my grandmother was the embodiment of neatness, she never forgave the doctor for this broad intimation of the questionableness of her neatness.” Dr. Stowe told the following story of Dr. Abernethy and a live Irishman:— “It occurred at Bath. A crowd of pupils, myself one of them, were following Mr. Abernethy through the crowded wards of the hospital, when the apparition of a poor Irishman, with the scantiest shirt I ever saw, jumped from a bed, and literally throwing himself on his knees at the doctor’s feet, presented itself. We were startled for a moment, but the poor fellow, with all his country’s eloquence, poured out such a torrent of praise, prayers, and blessings, and illustrated it with such ludicrous pantomimic displays of his leg, all splintered and bandaged, that we were not long left in doubt. “With some difficulty the patient was replaced in bed, and the doctor said,— “‘I am glad your leg is doing well, but never kneel again, except to your Maker.’ “The doctor took the opportunity of giving us a clinical lecture about diseases and their constitutional treatment. Every sentence Abernethy uttered, Pat confirmed. DR. ABERNETHY IN THE HOSPITAL. “‘Thrue for yer honnor; divil a lie at all, at all. His honnor’s the grathe doctor, entirely,’ etc. “At the slightest allusion to his case, off went the bed-clothes, and up went the leg, as if taking aim at the ceiling. ‘That’s it, be gorra! and a betther leg than the villain’s that wanted to slice it off, entirely.’ “The students actually roared with laughter, but Abernethy Madam Rothschild, mother of the mighty capitalists, attained the great age of ninety-eight. Her wits, which were of no common order, were preserved to the end. During her last illness, when surrounded by her family and some friends, she turned to her physician, and said, in a suppliant tone,— “My dear doctor, I pray you try to do something for me.” “Madam, what can I do? I cannot make you young again.” “No, doctor; nor do I want to be young again. But I want to continue to grow old.” Large Feet. Dr. Wood was a man of large “understanding.” One day at a presidential reception he was standing in a large crowd, when he felt two feet pressing on his patent leathers. Looking down, he discovered that the said feet belonged to a female. Wood was a bachelor, and at first the sensation was delightful. It made inexpressibly delicious thrills run all up and down his body. But as the impression was all on the lady’s side, the above sensations became gradually superseded by those not quite so delightful, and finally the pressure became very uncomfortable. Mustering courage, he said, very gently,— “Madam, if you please, you are standing on my feet—” “Your feet, sir, did you say?” For the crowd was so dense that she could not possibly see to the ground. “Yes, madam, on my feet—this last half hour,” very politely. “O, I beg a thousand pardons, sir; I thought I was standing on a block. They are quite large, sir,” trying to remove. “Yes, ma’am, quite large; but yours covered ’em, madam.” A Shanghai Rooster. Many people suffer more from the anticipation of trouble than by the actual infliction. The world is full of “trouble-borrowers.” They generally keep a stock on hand to lend to those who unfortunately are compelled to listen to them. The following is a mitigated case:— “Sir,” said a physician visiting a patient in the suburbs of this city, to a neighbor, “your Shanghai greatly disturbs my patient.” “Is it possible?” asked the neighbor, expressing surprise. “Yes, the bird is a terrible nuisance, giving the patient no peace, day or night, he informs me; but he did not want to complain.” “But,” replied the sceptical owner, “I don’t see how he can annoy neighbor B. Why, he only crows twice in the night, and only two or three times at regular intervals during the day.” “Yes; but you don’t take into consideration all the times the patient is expecting him to crow.” Spreading Herself. In a country town in Maine the writer knew an elderly physician, who had married a wife much younger than himself, whose aristocratic notions hardly coincided with those of this democratic people, though she had now lived here several years. Finally a young physician came into the place and commenced practice. Among the patients that he obtained from the old doctor’s former practice was one named Higgins. Mrs. Higgins, whose daughter had just recovered from a fever, gave a party, to which the families of both doctors, with the two ministers, and others, were invited. “Will you go to Mrs. Higgins’s party?” asked a neighbor of the old doctor’s wife. This reminds me of the following story, which is too good to be lost:— “‘Once upon a time,’ an old lady sent her grandson to set a turkey,—not the gobbler, as did the parson in Mrs. Stowe’s ‘Minister’s Wooing.’ On his return, the following dialogue occurred:— “‘Sammy, my dear, have you set her?’ “‘Yes, grandma,’ replied Hopeful. “AN EXTENSIVE SET.” “‘Fixed the nest up all nice, Sammy?’ “‘O, mighty fine, grandma.’ “‘Did you count the eggs, Sammy, and get an odd number?’ “‘Yes, grandma.’ “‘How many eggs did you set her on, Sammy, dear?’ “‘One hundred and twenty-one, grandma.’ “‘O, goodness gracious! Why did you put so many eggs under her, Sammy?’ “‘Why, grandma, I wanted to see the old thing spread herself.’” Kerosene. Some editors are continually making themselves ridiculous, as well as endangering the life of some person as ignorant in the matter as themselves, by publishing at random “remedies” for certain complaints, of both of which—remedy and disease—they knew nothing. The following I cut from a paper:— “One thing I will mention which may be useful to some one. Kerosene oil has been found effective as a vermifuge. It is given by the mouth for round stomach worms, and as an enema for pin worms. It is free from the irritation which follows the use of spirits turpentine, and is equally as effective.” (No directions as to quantity at a dose.) An Irishwoman in Hartford, Conn., spelling out the above in a newspaper, concluded to give her child, a boy of ten, a dose, under the belief that “wurrums ailed the child,” and as it was harmless (?), she would give him the benefit of its harmlessness, and her ignorance, and administered accordingly a tea-cup full! Frightful symptoms supervened,—colic, vomiting, etc.,—when a doctor was sent for, who being absent, his student—who hardly understood the danger of the case, and was a bit of a wag, by the way—sent the following prescription:— “?. Run a wick down the child’s throat; any lamp or candle wick will do, provided it is long enough; set fire to the end left outside, and use him for a lamp till the doctor arrives.” Selah. This may seem too ridiculous to believe, but it is the truth, nevertheless. Saleratus vs. Sugar. Early one summer morning, while practising in Plymouth, Conn., the writer was startled by a loud knock at the front “O, docther, docther! take yourself—down to that sha-anty as quick as ye conva-niantly can, plaze.” “O, DOCTHER, DEAR, I’VE PIZENED ME BOY.” “Why, what’s the matter at the shanty, Fitzgibbon?” “O, docther, dear, I’ve pizened my boy; what will I do intirely?” “Will, I’ll till yeze. He’s been sick wid the masles. Will, he’s ate nothin’ for a hole wake, and in the night he wanted some bread an’ sugar, do ye see? an’ I had no candle, an’ I wint in the dark, an’ spread him some bread, an’ he ate it intirely, an’ it was saleratus I put on it, instead of sugar; an’ it’s now atin’ him intirely! O, dear, dear, that I should iver give him saleratus instead o’ sugar!” “Well, Fitzgibbon, if the boy is so big a fool that he don’t know the difference between saleratus and sugar, let him die.” “O, docther, don’t say so!” exclaimed the poor fellow, in agony. Then I suddenly recollected that the sense of taste was always vitiated in measles, and thus excused the matter, adding,— “Now, run home, ’Gibbon, and give the little fellow a tea-spoonful of vinegar in a little sugar and water,—not saleratus and water, mind you.” “No, by the great St. Patrick, I’ll niver mistake the likes again,” he earnestly interrupted, when I went on, saying,— “Then in half an hour give him another tea-spoonful, and that will relieve the ‘gnawing at his stomach,’ and by an hour I’ll drive round there and see him, on my way to Watertown.” “I’ll trust to yeze to git it out of him. God bless yeze;” and away he darted, saying, “O, howly mother! that I should give him saleratus for sugar!” His last Joke. A celebrated English physician, who was also a distinguished humorist, when about to die, requested that none of his friends be invited to his funeral. “Because,” sighed the dying but polite humorist, “it is a courtesy which can never be returned.” Charles Matthews, the celebrated comedian, who died in 1837, put the above entirely in the shade by his last joke. The attending physician had left Mr. Matthews some medicine in a vial, which a friend was to administer during the night. By mistake, he gave the patient some ink from a vial which stood near. On discovering the error, his friend exclaimed, “O, gracious Heavens, Matthews, I have given you ink, instead of medicine.” “Never—never mind, my dear boy,” said the dying man faintly; “I will swallow a piece of blotting paper.” An astonished Negro. Dr. Robertson, of Charleston, S. C., who attended the writer in 1852, with the yellow fever, was as competent, benevolent, and faithful a physician as I ever had the pleasure of meeting. His services were in great demand during the raging of the “yellow Jack,” and on one occasion he was absent from his house and office two whole days and a night. His family became alarmed, and a faithful old negro was sent in search of his master. It was no uncommon occurrence to see a black man traversing the streets, ringing a bell, and crying a “lost child;” but to see a slave searching for his lost master, was almost a phenomenon. “LOST MARSER! LOST MARSER!” “What’s that you are crying, Neb?” His name was Nebuchadnezzar. “O, de Lord! if Masser Dr. Rob’son hain’t been an’ loss hisself!” “You old fool, Neb, I am your master—Dr. Robertson. Don’t you know me now?” exclaimed a familiar voice. Sure enough, it was the doctor, returning from his numerous visits, tired and dust-covered. The whole thing solemnly impressed the old darky, who, a day or two later, was met by a ranting Methodist, vulgarly termed a “carpet-bagger,” who, in a solemn voice, said,— “My colored friend, have you yet found the Lord Jesus?” “O, golly, masser!” exclaimed the old negro in astonishment; “hab de Lord done gone an’ loss hisself?” (I have seen the last part of this anecdote floating about the newspapers; but did ever any one see the former connection, or even the latter before 1852?) The writer was but a poor medical student, and an invalid, seeking here a more salubrious climate, away from the frosts and snows of his northern home, and though twenty years have since flown, I have not forgotten, and never shall, the kindness and attention received at the hands of the benevolent Dr. Robertson. While many who went out with me that fall fell victims to the fearful endemic before Jack Frost put a stop to its ravages, I escaped the grim monster Death; and to the superior knowledge and efficient treatment of Dr. R., with the excellent care of the benevolent landlady, Mrs. Butterfield, I owe my life. Morning and evening the doctor’s patter-patter was heard on the stairs,—three flights to climb. The whole case was gone over, and then, if the good old doctor had a moment to The following is one:— “Mr. Bacon, of Edgefield, was once courting a lady who had frequently refused him; but he, with commendable perseverance, had as often renewed the suit, until at last she became so exceedingly annoyed at his importunities that she told him that she could never marry a man whose tastes, opinions, likes and dislikes were so completely in opposition to her own as were his. “‘In fact, Mr. Bacon,’ she is represented as having said, ‘I do not think there is one subject on earth upon which we could agree.’ “‘I assure you, dear madam, that you are mistaken, which I can prove.’ “‘If you will mention one, I will agree to marry you,’ replied the lady. “‘Well, I will do it,’ replied Mr. Bacon. ‘Suppose now you and I were travelling together; we arrive at a hotel which is crowded; there are only two rooms not entirely occupied, in one of which there is a man, in the other a woman: with which would you prefer to sleep?’ “The lady arose indignantly, and replied, ‘With the woman, of course, sir.’ “‘So would I,’ replied Mr. Bacon, triumphantly.” (My room had two beds in it, which suggested the above story.) Dr. K.’s Mare. The outline of the following ludicrous “situation” was given me by a gentleman of Framingham:— Old Dr. K., of F., was represented as a rough and off-handed specimen of the genus homo, who liked a horse even better than a woman,—not that he was by any means unmindful of the charms and claims of the beautiful,—better An over-nice and sensitive spinster once was visiting the family of Mr. T., in town, which employed a younger and more refined physician than Dr. K.; and the spinster, being somewhat indisposed, requested Mr. T. to call a physician. His own family doctor was suggested; but on close inquiry, she concluded to have “the oldest and most experienced physician that the town afforded,” and old Dr. K. was called. Mr. T. had just purchased a beautiful mare, which the doctor was desirous of possessing; and the animal was the subject of conversation as the two entered the house, even to the parlor, where the spinster reclined upon a sofa. The old doctor examined the lady for a moment in silence, but his mind was all absorbed in the reputed qualities of the mare, as he timed the lady’s pulse. “Slightly nervous,” he said to the spinster. “Tongue? Ah! coated. Throat sore?” and turning towards T., he resumed the horse discussion, still holding the lady’s wrist. “Good wind, Mr. T.? No spavins? Nothing the matter? Suppose you trot her out this afternoon.” The spinster, supposing the conversation alluded to her, went into the most extreme kind of hysterics. “A Scared Customer.” We give this incident for what it is worth. A man recently entered a restaurant in Utica, N. Y., and ordered a very elaborate dinner. He lingered long at the table, and finally wound up with a bottle of wine. Then lighting a cigar, he sauntered up to the bar, and remarked to the proprietor,— “Very fine dinner, landlord. Just charge it, for I haven’t a cent.” “But I don’t know you,” replied the proprietor, indignantly. “Pay me for the dinner, I say,” shouted the landlord. “And I say I can’t,” vociferated the customer. “Then I’ll see about it,” exclaimed the proprietor, who snatched something from a drawer, leaped over the counter, and grasping the man by the collar, pointed something at his throat. “I’ll see if you get away with that dinner without paying for it, you scoundrel.” “What is that you hold in your hand?” demanded the now affrighted customer, trying to get a sight at the article. “That, sir, is a revolver; loaded, sir.” NOT A STOMACH-PUMP. “O, d—— that; I don’t care a continental for a revolver; I’ve got one myself. I was afraid it was a stomach-pump!” “What’s Trumps?” Mrs. Bray, in her book of Anecdotes, relates a story illustrative of the power of the ruling passion. “A Devonshire physician, boasting the not untradesman-like name of Vial, was a desperate lover of the game of whist. One evening, during his opponent’s deal, he fell to the floor in a fit. Consternation seized on the company, who knew not if the doctor was dead or alive. Finally he showed signs of returning life, and retaining the last cherished idea that had possessed him on falling into the fit, he resumed his chair, exclaiming, ‘What’s trumps, boys?’” The writer was present at a similar occurrence. There were a half score of boys seated upon some logs near the country school-house, during recess, listening to a story, something about “an old woman who had just reached a well, with a pitcher to obtain some water, when the old lady tripped her toe, and fell into the well head foremost.” At this juncture one of the listeners fell forward from the log in a fit. We were greatly frightened, but mustered sufficient courage to throw some water in the boy’s face, when he gradually came to his senses, exclaiming,— “Did she break the pitcher, Johnny?” To Mrs. Bray’s book we are again indebted for the following:— “A bon-vivant, brought to his death-bed by an immoderate use of wine, was one day informed by his physician that he could not, in all human probability, survive many hours, and that he would die before eight o’clock the following morning, summoned all his remaining strength to call the doctor back, and, when the physician had returned, made an ineffectual attempt to rise in bed, saying, with the true recklessness of an innate gambler,— “‘Doctor, I’ll bet you some bottles that I live till nine!’” “Let go the Halliards.” A sailor was taken with the pleurisy on board a vessel that was hauling through the “seven bridges” that span the Charles River from the Navy Yard to Cambridgeport, and a well-known physician, rather of the Falstaffian make-up, whom I may as well call Dr. Jones,—because that is not his name,—was summoned. He prescribed for the patient, and when the schooner touched the pier of the bridge, he stepped ashore, as was supposed by the captain and crew, whose whole attention was required to keep the vessel from driving against the drawer; but “there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip,” and the old doctor had taken the “slip,” and went plump overboard, unseen by any. In his descent he grasped at a rope, which happened to be the jib halliards, and as he came up, puffing and blowing the salt water from his mouth and nose, he began to haul “hand-over-hand” at the halliards. His corpulency overbalanced the jib, and gradually the sail began to ascend, to the astonishment of the cook, who stood near by, and to the wrath of the captain on the quarter-deck. “Let go the jib halliards, there, you confounded slush,” roared the captain. “I ain’t h’isting the jib,” replied the terrified cook, believing that the sail was bewitched, for sailors are quite superstitious, you know. “Let go the halliards,” shouted the mate. “We shall be across the draw, and all go to Davy Jones’ locker. Hear, d—— you, Slush-bucket?” Still the old doctor pulled for dear life, and still rose the ghost-like sail, while the affrighted cook and all hands ran aft, looking as pale as death. Still the sail went up, up, and the captain and mate began to be astonished, when by this time—less time than it requires to tell it—the old doctor had reached the rail of the vessel, and shouted lustily for help. If you want to get kicked out of his office, just say in his hearing, “Let go them ’ere halliards,” and it is done. “O, mermaids, is it cold and wet Medical Titbits. More Mustard than Meat.—A poor, emaciated Irishman having called in a physician as a forlorn hope, the latter spread a large mustard plaster and applied it to the poor fellow’s lean chest. “Ah, docthor,” said Pat, looking down upon the huge plaster with tearful eyes, “it sames to me it’s a dale of mustard for so little mate.” “Don’t want to be an Angel.”—“I want to be an angel,” which has been so long shouted by millions of darling little Sunday school children, who hadn’t the remotest idea for what they had been wishing (?), and whose parents would not voluntarily consent to the premature transformation, if the children did, has received a check in the following:— A little sprite, who had been so very sick that her life was despaired of, was told one morning by the doctor that she would now get well. “O, I’m so glad, doctor!” she replied; “for I don’t want to die and go to heaben, and be an angel, and wear fedders, like a hen.” Tooth Drawing. A snobbish-appearing individual accosted a countryman in homespun with the following interrogation:— “What?” exclaimed the astonished rustic. “Can you familiarize me with the most direct course to a physician?” “Hey?” “Can you tell me where a doctor lives?” “O, a doctor’s house. Why didn’t you say so before?” The next is after the same sort. A sailor chap entered a dentist’s office to have a tooth extracted. “LOWER TIER, LARBOARD SIDE.” Doctor (with great professional dignity, speaking very slowly). “Well, mariner, what tooth do you require extracted? Is it an incisor, bicuspid, or a molar?” Jack (brusque and loud). “It’s here in the lower tier, The most astonished boy I ever beheld was a little country lad who came to have a tooth drawn. “He thought it must be fun,” his mother said; “but he never had one drawn, and knows nothing of it.” “O!” with a great, round mouth, was all he had time to say, but the expression of astonishment depicted on that striking countenance, glaring eyes, and by the expressive, spasmodic “O!” I never can forget or describe; and he caught his hat and ran home, a distance of two miles, without stopping, while his mother followed in the carriage by which they came. The boy’s idea was summed up as follows:— “The doctor hitched tight onto the tooth with his pinchers, then he pulled his first best, and just before it killed me, the tooth came out, and so I run home.” “Taking it out in trade” is all very well when the arrangement is mutual; but there are occasions when the advantages are imperceptible, at least to one party, as thus:— “What’s the matter, Jerry?” asked old Mr. ——, as Jeremiah was jogging by, growling most furiously. “Matter ’nough,” replied old Jerry. “There I’ve been luggin’ water all the morning for the doctor’s wife to wash with, and what do you s’pose she give me for it?” “About ninepence.” “Ninepence? No! She told me the doctor would pull a tooth for me some time, when he got leisure.” Apothecaries sometimes “come down” from the dignity of the professional man, and crack a joke. For instance,— A humorous druggist on Washington Street recently exposed some cakes of soap in his window with the pertinent inscription, “Cheaper than dirt.” “Do you keep matches, sir?” “O, yes, all kinds,” was the reply. “Well, I’ll take a trotting match,” said the wag. The equally humorous druggist handed down a box of pills, saying,— “Here, take ’em and trot.” A sure Cure.—Henry Ward Beecher is currently reported as having once written to Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes as to the knowledge of the latter respecting a certain difficulty. The reply was characteristic, and encouraging. “Gravel,” wrote the doctor, “gravel is an effectual cure. It should be taken about four feet deep.” The “remedy” was not, however, so remarkable as the following:— “Time and Cure.”—A good-looking and gentlemanly-dressed fellow was arraigned on the charge of stealing a watch, which watch was found on his person. It was his first offence, and he pleaded, “Guilty.” The magistrate was struck with the calm deportment of the prisoner, and asked him what had induced him to take the watch. “Having been out of health for some time,” replied the young man, sorrowfully, “the doctor advised me to take something, which I accordingly did.” The magistrate was rather amused with the humor of the explanation, and further inquired why he had been led to select so remarkable a remedy as a watch. “Why,” replied the prisoner, “I thought if I only had the time, Nature might work the cure.” “Die with? Why, the cholera, mostly, nowadays.” “Well, I guess that’s the name of what I want. I’ll take three cents’ worth.” The Hartford Courant told this story in 1869:— “Cholera fenced in.—You have noticed the flaming handbills setting forth the virtues of a cholera remedy, that are posted by the hundreds on the board fence enclosing the ground on Main Street, where Roberts’ opera house is being erected. Well, there was a timid countryman, the other day, who had so far recovered from the ‘cholera scare’ as to venture into the city with a horse and wagon load of vegetables; and thereby hangs a tale. He drove moderately along the street, when he suddenly spied the word ‘Cholera,’ in big letters on the new fence, and he staid to see no more. Laying the lash on to his quadruped, he went past the handbills like a streak of lightning, went—‘nor stood on the order of his going’—up past the tunnel, planting the vegetables along the entire route,—for the tail-board had loosened,—hardly taking breath, or allowing his beast to breathe, till he reached home at W. “Safely there, he rushed wildly into the midst of his household, exclaiming,— “‘O, wife, wife, they have got the cholera in Hartford, and have fenced it in.’” A Joke that’s not a Joke.—A funny limb of the law had an office, a few years since, on —— Street, next door to a doctor’s shop. One day, an elderly gentleman, of the fogy school, blundered into the lawyer’s office, and asked,— “Is the doctor in?” THE FARMER’S ESCAPE FROM THE CHOLERA. “O, I thought this was the doctor’s office.” “Next door, sir;” short, and still writing. “I beg pardon, but can you tell me if the doctor has many patients?” “Not living,” was the brief reply. The old gentleman repeated the story in the vicinity, and the doctor threatened the lawyer with a libel. The latter apologized, saying, “it was only a joke, and that no man could sustain a libel against a lawyer,” when the doctor acknowledged the joke, and satisfaction, saying he would send up a bottle of wine, in token of reconciliation. The wine came, and the lawyer invited in a few friends to laugh over the joke, and smile over the doctor’s wine. The seal was broken, the dust and cobwebs being removed, and the doctor’s health drunk right cordially. The excellence of the doctor’s wine was but half discussed, when the lawyer begged to be excused a moment, caught his hat, and rushed from the room. Soon one of the guests repeated the request, and followed; then another, and another, till they had all gone out. The wine had been nicely “doctored” with tartar emetic, the seal replaced and well dusted over, before being sent to the lawyer. The doctor was now threatened with prosecution; but after some consideration, the following brief correspondence passed between the belligerents:— “Nolle prosequi.” Lawyer to doctor. “Quits.” Doctor to lawyer. Parboiling an Old Lady.—In Rockland, Me., then called East Thomaston, several years ago, there resided an old Thomsonian doctor, who had erected in one room of his dwelling a new steam bath. An old lady from the “Meadows,” concluding to try the virtues of the medicated steam, “Now it’s going all right,” said the doctor, when ding, ding, ding! went the front door bell. The doctor stepped noiselessly out, and learned that a woman required his immediate attention at South Thomaston, three miles away. He forgot all about the old lady fastened into the bath, and leaping into the carriage in waiting, he was whisked off to South Thomaston. Meantime the steam increased, and the old lady began to get anxious. The moisture gathered on her book; the leaves began to wilt. The dampness increased, and soon the book fell to pieces in her lap. Great drops of sweat and steam rolled down over her face and body, and she arose, and tapping very gently at the door, said,— “Hadn’t I better come out now, doctor?” TOO MUCH VAPOR. No reply. She waited a moment longer, and repeated the knock louder. Still the doctor, to her astonishment, did not reply, or open the door. “For God’s sake, doctor, let me out.” Listening a few seconds, she screamed, “O, I believe he’s gone, and left me here to parboil! Open, open!” And she knocked louder and louder at the door, while the now almost scalding waters literally poured from her body. “O, I shall suffocate here.” And giving a desperate kick, she set her foot through the panelled door, and, getting down on all fours, she crawled through the opening. Just then the doctor’s wife, hearing the thumping, hastened to the room, and with many apologies and excuses, rubbed down and dried the old lady, and begged her not to mention the affair. But never, to the day of her death, did the old lady again enter a “steam bath,” or cease to tell how “the doctor went off to attend a ‘birth’ leaving her in the bath to parboil!” A Dry Shower Bath.—When shower baths were all the rage, a few years ago, all sorts of plans were suggested to avoid getting wet. The following is to the point:— Doctor. Well, deacon, how did your wife manage her new shower bath? A DRY SHOWER BATH. Deacon. O, she had real good luck. Madam Mooney told how she managed with hern. She had made a large oiled silk hood, with a large Doctor (impatiently). She’s a fool for her pains. That’s not the way. Deacon. So my wife thought. Doctor. And your wife did nothing of the kind, I hope. Deacon. O, no, no. My wife, she used an umbrilly. |
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