Small Beer.
The Earl of Bath, when he was Mr. Pulteney, was very sick of the pleuristic fever, in Staffordshire. Doctor after doctor had been called down from London, till his secretary had paid out the sum of three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars. The last two physicians had given him up. “He must die,” said Drs. Friend and Broxholm. They, however prescribed some simple remedies, and were about to leave, when the invalid, just alive, was heard to mutter, “Small beer.”
“He asks for small beer,” said the attendants. “Shall we give him some?”
“Yes, give him ‘small beer,’ or anything,” replied the doctors.
A great two-quart silver pitcher full was brought, and he drank the whole contents, and demanded more. The request was granted, and, after drinking the gallon, he fell asleep, perspired freely, and recovered.
The poetical and amusing Side.
There is a poetical side, as well as a prosy side, to the camp and hospital. The following effusion of confusion was sent to the writer by a brother who gave his life for his country. It was written by a rebel soldier, who never realized his dream, and doubtless his “Amelia” mourns his loss as sincerely as though he had fought in a better cause.
To Amelia.
1. O, come, my love, and go away to the land up north; for there, they say, it’s rite good picketin’ for rebel boys. And we’ll take the land, and sweep the band of New Yorkers into the bay.
2. I’ve heered of Delmonico’s, and Barnum’s Shows, and how many hotels the land only knows. And we’ll steer our bark for Centre Park. Here’s a health to ourselves, and away she goes. (Here I drank.)