An amusing description is given of one Dr. Butler, of London, who, like
the above, used to get drunk nightly. He was the inventor of a beer which
bore his name, something like our Ottawa, "with a stick in it," by one Dr.
Irish. We once saw a drunken fellow holding on to a lamp post, while he
held out one hand, and was arguing with an imaginary policeman that he was
not drunk,--only had been taking a "little of that--hic--beverage, Dr.
Waterwa's Irish beer, by the advice of his physician."
[Illustration: "ONLY IRISH BEER."]
Dr. Butler had an old female servant named Nell Boler. At ten o'clock,
nightly, she used to go to the tavern where the doctor was, by that hour,
too drunk to go home alone, when, after some argument and a deal of
scolding from Nell for his "beastly drunkenness," she would carry the
inebriated doctor home, and put him to bed.
"Notwithstanding that Dr. Butler was fond of beer and wine for himself, he
was said to approve of water for his patients. Once he occupied rooms
bordering on the Thames. A gentleman afflicted by the ague came to see
him. Butler tipped the wink to his assistant, who tumbled the invalid out
of the window, slap into the river. We are asked to believe that the
surprise actually cured the patient of his disease."
[Illustration: CURE FOR THE AGUE.]
Water did not cure the doctor, however, but beer did.
Dr. Burrowly was stricken down in his prime, and just as he was about to
succeed to the most elevated position in the medical profession.
The doctor was a politician, as well as an excellent surgeon. When Lords
Gower and Vandeput were contesting the election for Westminster, in 1780,
the doctor was supporting the latter. One Weatherly, who kept a tavern,
and whose wife wore the ---- belt, was very sick. Mrs. Weatherly deeply
regretted the fact of the sickness, as she wanted her husband to vote for
Lord T. Late on election day, Dr. Burrowly called round to see his
patient, quite willing that he should be sufficiently sick to keep him
from going to the polls. To his surprise he found him up, and dressed.
"Heyday! how's this?" exclaimed the doctor, in anger. "Why are you up,
without my permission?"
"O, doctor," replied Joe Weatherly, feebly, "I am going to vote."
"Vote!" roared the doctor, not doubting that his wife had urged him to
attempt to go to the polls to vote for Lord J. "To bed. The cold air would
kill you. To bed instantly, or you're a dead man before nightfall."
"I'll do as you say, doctor; but as my wife was away, I thought I could
get as far as Covent Garden Church, and vote for Sir George Vandeput."
"For Sir George, did you say, Joe?"
"O, yes, sir; I don't agree with my wife. She's for Lord Trentham."
The doctor changed his prognosis.
"Wait. Let me see; nurse, don't remove his stockings;" feeling the man's
pulse. "Humph! A good firm stroke. Better than I expected. You took the
pills? Yes; they made you sick? Nurse, did he sleep well?"
"Charmingly, sir;" with a knowing twinkle of the eye.
"Well, Joe, if you are bent on going to the polls, it will set your mind
better at ease to go. It's a fine sunny afternoon. The ride will do you
good. So, bedad, I'll take you along in my chariot."
Weatherly was delighted with the doctor's urbanity, resumed his coat, went
to the election, and voted for Sir George, rode back in the chariot, _and
died two hours afterwards_, amidst the reproaches of his amiable spouse.
"Called away from a dinner table, where he was eating, laughing, and
drinking deeply, Dr. B. was found dead in the coach from apoplexy, on the
arrival at the place of destination."
[Illustration]