General Guise going over one campaign to Flanders, observed a raw young officer, who was in the same vessel with him, and with his usual humanity told him that he would take care of him, and conduct him to Antwerp, where they were both going, which he accordingly did, and then took leave of him.  The young fellow was soon told by some arch rogues, whom he happened to fall in with, that he must signalise himself by fighting some man of known courage, or else he would soon be despised in the regiment.  The young man said he knew no one but Colonel Guise, and he had received great obligations from him.  “It is all one for that,” said they, “in these cases.  The Colonel is the fittest man in the world, as everybody knows his bravery.”  Soon afterwards the young officer accosted Colonel Guise, as he was walking up and down the coffee room, and began, in a hesitating manner, to tell him how much obliged he had been to him, and how sensible he was of his obligations.  “Sir,” replied Colonel Guise, “I have done my duty by you, and no more.”  “But Colonel,” added the young officer, faltering, “I am told that I must fight some gentleman of known courage, and who has killed several persons, and that nobody”—­“Oh, sir,” interrupted the Colonel, “your friends do me too much honour; but there is a gentleman (pointing to a fierce-looking black fellow that was sitting at one of the tables) who has killed half the regiment, and who will suit you much better.”  The officer went up to him, and told him he had heard of his bravery, and that for that reason he must fight him.  “Who?—­I, sir?” said the gentleman; “why, I am the apothecary.”

Dr. Moore, author of “Zeluco,” used to say that at least two-thirds of a physician’s fees were for imaginary complaints.  Among several instances of this nature, he mentions one of a clothier, who, after drinking the Bath waters, took it into his head to try Bristol hot wells.  Previous, however, to his setting off, he requested his physician to favour him with a letter, stating his case to any brother doctor.  This done, the patient got into a chaise and started.  After proceeding half way, he felt curious to see the contents of the letter, and on opening it, read as follows:—­“Dear Sir,—­The bearer is a fat Wiltshire clothier:  make the most of him.”  It is almost unnecessary to add that his cure was from that moment effected, as he ordered the chaise to turn, and immediately proceeded home.

Sir Charles Wager had a sovereign contempt for physicians, though he believed a surgeon, in some cases, might be of service.  It happened that Sir Charles was seized with a fever while he was out upon a cruise, and the surgeon, without much difficulty, prevailed upon him to lose a little blood, and suffer a blister to be laid on his back.  By-and-bye it was thought necessary to lay on another blister, and repeat the bleeding, to which Sir Charles also consented.  The symptoms then abated, and the surgeon told him that he must now swallow a few bolusses, and take a draught.  “No, no, doctor,” says Sir Charles, “you shall batter my hulk as long as you will, but depend on it, you shan’t board me.”