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SUMMER before last, the time when cholera had poisoned the air, a gentleman of wealth, standing and intelligence, from one of the Southern or Middle States, while temporarily sojourning in Boston, felt certain “premonitory symptoms,” that were rather alarming, all things considered. So he inquired of the hotel-keeper where he could find a good physician.

“One of your best,” said he, with an emphasis in his tones that showed how important was the matter in his eyes.

“Doctor–stands at the head of his profession in our city,” returned the hotel-keeper. “You may safely trust yourself in his hands.”

“Thank you. I will call upon him immediately,” said the gentleman, and away he went.

The doctor, fortunately, as the gentleman mentally acknowledged, was in his office. The latter, after introducing himself, stated his case with some concern of manner; when the doctor felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, and made sundry professional inquiries.

“Your system is slightly disturbed,” remarked the doctor, after fully ascertaining the condition of his patient, “but I’ll give you a prescription that will bring all right again in less than twenty-four hours.”

And so he took out his pencil and wrote a brief prescription.

“How much am I indebted, doctor?” inquired the gentleman, as he slipped the little piece of paper into his vest pocket.

“Five dollars for the consultation and prescription,” replied the doctor, bowing.

“Cheap enough, if I am saved from an attack of cholera,” said the patient as he drew forth his pocket-book and abstracted from its folds the required fee. He then returned to the hotel, and, going to one of the clerks, or bar-keeper, in the office, said to him–

“I wish you would send out and get me this prescription.”

“Prescription! Why, Mr.–, are you sick?” returned the bar-keeper.

“I’m not very well,” was answered.

“What’s the matter?”

“Symptoms of the prevailing epidemic.”

“Oh! Ah! And you’ve been to see a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Doctor–“

The bar-keeper shrugged his shoulders, as he replied–

“Good physician. None better. That all acknowledge. But, if you’ll let me prescribe for you, I’ll put you all straight in double-quick time.”

“Well, what will you prescribe, Andy?” said the gentleman.

“I’ll prescribe this.” And, as he spoke, he drew from under the counter a bottle labelled–“Mrs.–‘s Cordial.”

“Take a glass of that, and you can throw your doctor’s prescription into the fire.”

“You speak confidently, Andy?”

“I do, for I know its virtue.”

The gentleman, who had in his hand a prescription for which he had paid five dollars to one of the most skilful and judicious physicians in New England, strange as it may seem, listened to this bar-keeper, and in the end actually destroyed the prescription, and poured down his throat a glass of “Mrs.–‘s Cordial.”

It is no matter of surprise that, ere ten o’clock in the evening, the gentleman’s premonitory symptoms, which had experienced a temporary abatement, assumed a more alarming character. And now, instead of going to, he was obliged to send for, a physician. Doctor–, whom he had consulted, was called in, and immediately recognised his patient of the morning.

“I’m sorry to find you worse,” said he. “I did not in the least doubt the efficacy of the remedy I gave you. But, have you taken the prescription.”

“Wh–wh–why no, doctor,” stammered the half-ashamed patient. “I confess that I did not. I took something else.”

“Something else! What was it?”

“I thought a glass of Mrs.–‘s cordial would answer just as well.”

“You did! and, pray, who prescribed this for you?” said the doctor, moving his chair instinctively from his patient and speaking in a rather excited tone of voice.

“No one prescribed it. I took it on the recommendation of the bar-keeper down-stairs, who said that he knew it would cure me.”

“And you had my prescription in your pocket at the same time! The prescription of a regular physician, of twenty-five years’ practice, set aside for a quack nostrum, recommended by a bar-keeper! A fine compliment to common sense and the profession, truly! My friend, if I must speak out plainly, you deserve to die–and I shouldn’t much wonder if you got your deserts! Good evening!”