"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] XXIII. THE DOCTOR AS POET, AUTHOR, AND MUSICIAN. "Here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling."