Willie Law, a half-witted man, was the descendant of an ancient family, nearly related to the famous John Law, of Lauriston, the celebrated financier of France.  Willie on that account was often spoken to and taken notice of by gentlemen of distinction.  Posting one day through Kirkaldy, with more than ordinary speed, he was met by Mr. Oswald, of Dunnikier, who asked him where he was going in such a hurry.  “Going!” says Willie, with apparent surprise, “I’m gaen to my cousin Lord Elgin’s burial.”  “Your cousin Lord Elgin’s burial, you fool!  Lord Elgin’s not dead,” replied Mr. Oswald.  “Oh, never mind,” quoth Willie; “there’s six doctors out o’ Edinbro’ at him, and they’ll hae him dead afore I get there.”

Physicians in China.—­Caleb Colton, nephew of the late Sir George Staunton, gives in a recent publication the following anecdote:—­“My late uncle, Sir G. Staunton, related to me a curious anecdote of old Kien Long, Emperor of China.  He was inquiring of Sir George the manner in which physicians were paid in England.  When, after some difficulty, his majesty was made to comprehend the system, he exclaimed, ’Is any man well in England that can afford to be ill?  Now, I will inform you,’ said he, ’how I manage my physicians.  I have four, to whom the care of my health is committed:  a certain weekly salary is allowed them; but the moment I am ill the salary stops till I am well again.  I need not tell you that my illnesses are usually short.’”

Zimmerman, who was very eminent as a physician, went from Hanover to attend Frederick the Great in his last illness.  One day the king said to him, “You have, I presume, sir, helped many a man into another world?” This was rather a bitter pill for the doctor; but the dose he gave the king in return was a judicious mixture of truth and flattery:  “Not so many as your majesty, nor with so much honour to myself.”

Montaigne, who is great upon doctors, used to beseech his friends that if he felt ill they would let him get a little stronger before sending for the doctor.

Moliere, when once travelling through Auvergne, was taken very ill at a distance from any place where he could procure respectable medical aid.  It was proposed to him to send for a celebrated physician at Clermont.  “No, no,” said he, “he is too great a man for me:  go and bring me the village surgeon; he will not, perhaps, have the hardihood to kill me so soon.”

Louis XIV., who was a slave to his physicians, asked Moliere one day what he did with his doctor.  “Oh, sire,” said he, “when I am ill I send for him.  He comes; we have a chat, and enjoy ourselves.  He prescribes;—­I don’t take it, and I am cured.”